Sticks and Stones
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: AU tag to "After School Special" – Injured Sam, Big Brother Dean – Dirk smiled as he began walking in Sam's direction; wondering if the kid who thought he was so tough was going to be tough enough to survive a bullet.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: AU tag to "After School Special" – Injured Sam, Big Brother Dean – Dirk smiled as he began walking in Sam's direction; wondering if the kid who thought he was so tough was going to be tough enough to survive a bullet.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Sensitive topic (school shooting) and usual language

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><p><em>All the other kids...better run, better run – outrun my gun. All the other kids...better run, better run – faster than my bullet. ~ Foster the People<em>

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><p>Every day was hard when you hated your life.<p>

And Dirk McGregor, Jr. _hated_ his life.

Hated that his mother had died of cancer.

Hated that he had had to take care of her; that he had had to see and do things a kid should never have to see and do for his mom.

Hated that his dad had always been working during his mother's illness and had never been around to help carry the load.

Hated that the kids at school – who had _no fucking clue_ what he was dealing with at home – had started calling him "Dirk the Jerk".

And it was all because of that new kid – that quiet little shrimp with the floppy hair – who had seemed like easy prey...until the kid had kicked Dirk's ass yesterday after school.

...which had led to Dirk's new nickname.

Sam Winchester had been the first to say it, but the other kids had immediately adopted it; had chanted it – _Dirk the Jerk...Dirk the Jerk...Dirk the Jerk_ – until it had become one loud hum that had followed Dirk from the schoolyard to the bus and even home as he had laid awake in bed last night and had heard their voices; had still seen their faces leering at him in the dark.

And it was then – in the secluded darkness of his room – that Dirk had developed his plan to make them wish they had treated him differently; that they had remembered their place in the pecking order of high school and had given him the respect he deserved for all the pain he had endured...a dead mother, an absent father, and a life that was _too fucking hard_.

Once the idea had occurred to Dirk, the rest of the details had come together fast and easy.

Because he had known where his dad kept the one gun in the entire household – in the top drawer of the bedside table in his parents' bedroom – and he had known that since his dad was working a double shift, the old man wouldn't be around to stop him from taking it the following morning before school.

Dirk felt his lips twitch in a smile as he stood on the sidewalk outside Truman High, squinting in the morning sun as he stared at the school in front of him; his backpack left at home – because he wasn't here to learn today – while his hand was wrapped around the grip of the pistol he had tucked in his coat pocket.

_Dirk the Jerk. _

Dirk snorted and shook his head; still silently seething as he climbed the steps and approached the school's door; already anticipating the expressions of shock and fear and _pain _on his classmates' faces when they realized they had been shot...when they realized Dirk the Jerk had been the one to pull the trigger.

Dirk chuckled – feeling strangely detached and euphoric – and opened the high school's door; entering the building and merging with the moving crowd that filled the hallway; students cramming books into their lockers, gossiping, flirting, laughing...and having no idea what was about to happen.

Dirk smiled again – the secret power intoxicating – as his eyes scanned the hallway, looking for that small kid with the floppy hair; the one who was stupid enough to stand up for himself and then think he was going to live to tell about it.

"No fucking way," Dirk muttered under his breath, becoming increasingly frustrated when he didn't see Sam among the other students in the hall.

It would be just Dirk's luck if the little shit had decided to stay home today – today of all days.

Dirk growled his irritation and stopped in the middle of the hall; his hand twitching in anticipation as it continued to grip the gun hidden in his coat pocket; his finger literally itching as it hovered over the trigger.

And then that's when he saw him – Sam Winchester...at the far end of the hall...stuffing his backpack into his locker and talking to that other pathetic dork...Barry Whatever.

Dirk smiled – that tingling feeling instantly back and surging through his veins – as he began walking in Sam's direction; wondering if the kid who thought he was so tough was going to be tough enough to survive a bullet.

Speaking of...

Dirk had six bullets in the gun he carried and only two were already spoken for – one for Sam and the other for Dirk once this was over...which meant there were four still available to take others along for the ride to the other side.

Dirk glanced to his left...then to his right; trying to decide who would be first to take an extra bullet.

But in the end, he guessed it really didn't matter.

Because they were all assholes who had helped make his miserable life even more miserable; assholes who deserved to _fucking die_.

Dirk nodded in agreement with himself and finally pulled the gun from his coat pocket, vaguely aware of gasps and screams as he took aim.

* * *

><p>"Mmm..." Amanda Heckerling sighed; her eyes closed in blissful pleasure as she savored the feel and taste of Dean Winchester on her lips.<p>

"You liked that, huh?" Dean asked knowingly, leaning back and cocking a smile to match his attitude.

Amanda opened her eyes and stared at the charming badass within inches of her face; inexplicably turned on by that leather jacket he wore and mesmerized by his piercing green eyes that seemed to sparkle even in the shadows of the janitor's closet in which they were currently crammed.

"Mandy..." Dean called.

...which usually annoyed the hell out of Amanda – because her name was _Amanda_, not _Mandy_ – but Dean Winchester could call her whatever the hell he wanted as long as he kissed her like that again.

"That was _amazing_," Amanda praised, sounding as breathless as she felt.

Dean's smile widened as he nodded.

Because it was true.

He – and everything he did – was amazing.

He had been told enough over the years by various girls to count the statement as researched fact.

"What time is it?" Amanda asked suddenly, her eyes darting to the closet door as she remembered they were still in school; that she still needed to make it to first period in time to escape Ms. Hornsby's wrath.

Dean shrugged; obviously not caring that they were in school...or that students shouldn't be tardy to class unless they wanted detention.

Amanda narrowed her eyes playfully. "Don't you ever worry about anything?"

Dean stared at her, his expression briefly softening. "Just one thing," he admitted.

And although Amanda wished that one thing was her, she wasn't foolish enough to delude herself.

Because she had seen Dean with his little brother – had been unexpectedly touched by how different Dean had seemed with the kid – and Amanda knew _that_ was the one thing Dean worried about...his brother.

Amanda sighed and then blinked as muffled commotion erupted in the hall outside the janitor's closet.

"What's that?" she wondered aloud at the sharp popping sound mingled with screams.

"That's a _fucking gun_," Dean answered as he turned to face the door; his tone harsh as he instantly transitioned from an easygoing, wisecracking Romeo to the seasoned, lethal hunter he was. "Shit. Sam..."

Amanda's eyes widened at the revelation. "A gun?" she repeated, her voice panicked as another shot was fired in the hall. "Who the hell would bring a gun to Truman?"

Dean shook his head; caring less about who was doing the shooting and more about who had gotten shot; his own panic beginning to rise at the thought of Sam being out there in the hall.

Dean sighed harshly, reminding himself that while Sam was young and didn't have as much experience as he did, the kid was still a hunter; still knew how to defend himself and when to get down if bullets started flying.

But still – Sam was out there...alone.

Dean sighed again, wishing his own gun wasn't back at the motel. "Stay here," he ordered Amanda and reached for the doorknob of the janitor's closet.

"Wait!" Amanda yelled, moving on instinct as she grabbed the sleeve of Dean's leather jacket. "You can't go out there! Not if somebody's shooting a gun!"

"Sam's out there," Dean growled, snatching from her grasp and shoving her back.

"How do you know that?" Amanda countered, stumbling over the mop bucket and bracing herself against one of the shelves that lined the closet; knowing she had been right – that Sam was the one thing Dean worried about. "Maybe he's already in class."

Dean shook his head – because he knew _exactly_ where Sam was...right where he had left the kid...standing by his locker about 30 feet down the hall from the closet.

"Dean..." Amanda called, her voice trembling.

Dean ignored her; didn't even look at Amanda as he continued to stand by the door; his attention focused on what was happening in the hall as he developed a quick plan.

Amanda sighed, her heart beating wildly in her chest as another shot rang out. "Maybe..."

"_Shut up_," Dean snapped, glaring over his shoulder at her for emphasis. "Don't say another fucking word and don't come out of here until this is over."

"Dean..." Amanda called, her eyes widening as Dean turned the doorknob; realizing he was actually going out into the hall; out into the proverbial line of fire. "Dean! No! Wait!"

But she was talking to herself.

Because Dean was already gone; was already out the door and yelling Sam's name.

* * *

><p>"So, what do you think?" Barry Cook asked seriously, readjusting the horn-rimmed glasses on his face before nervously fidgeting with the backpack straps across his shoulders.<p>

"I think my brother needs to think more with his upstairs brain," Sam answered, staring down the hall and watching as Dean approached his flavor of the week; that blond girl – Amanda Hecker...something.

Barry frowned but followed Sam's gaze. "Wow..." he commented, his voice quiet with amazement as he realized what Sam was staring at. "Is that your brother with Amanda Heckerling?"

Sam nodded; his expression communicating his quiet disapproval of Dean's priorities – to make out..._again..._before first period with some random girl he had only met a couple days ago.

"He's _so_ cool," Barry declared; his eyes wide as Amanda grasped Dean's outstretched hand and laughed at something the older boy said. "Really, _really_ cool."

Sam snorted. "Yeah," he agreed dryly and rolled his eyes as Dean winked at him over his shoulder before ducking into the janitor's closet with Amanda and closing the door.

There was a beat of silence as Sam turned back to his locker; taking out his textbook and notebook for his first class and then shoving his backpack into the small space that was embarrassingly high for him to reach.

"What do you think they do in there?" Barry asked curiously, referring to Dean and Amanda as he continued to stare down the hall.

Sam stopped struggling with his backpack and cut his eyes at Barry.

Barry shrugged. "Just wondering..." he defended lamely and then laughed self-consciously.

Sam shook his head. "I don't want to think about it," he responded, finally cramming his backpack into his locker and shutting the metal door. "It might give me nightmares."

Barry laughed again and playfully shoved Sam's shoulder.

Sam smiled.

"So..." Barry sighed, shifting from one foot to the other as they continued to stand by the row of lockers lining the hall. "Like I was saying...what do you think?"

Sam frowned, holding his books across his chest. "About what?"

"About being the school's hero!" Barry informed excitedly.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Everybody's talking about what happened yesterday after school," Barry continued to gush. "I mean...you kicked Dirk's butt _and_ gave him a new nickname. It was awesome!"

Sam shrugged, uncomfortable with praise for what he regretted; not that he was sorry for defending himself against a bully, but he did wish he could take back the nickname.

_Dirk the Jerk_ was just something he had said; something that had popped into his mind because it rhymed and had seemed to fit the situation at the time and had just come out before he had thought about it.

Sam had never expected the name to stick or for everyone to latch on to it with such joyful ferocity.

"Dirk the Jerk," Barry said and then smiled at his friend. "That's genius, Sam! You're just as cool as your brother!"

Sam chuckled, imagining Dean's horrified reaction to that comparison.

Barry continued to beam and then sighed, glancing around the hall. "Do you think Dirk will even come today?"

Sam shrugged. "Probably," he replied. "If for no other reason than to kick my ass for yesterday..."

Barry laughed. "A rematch," he declared and then nodded. "I like that idea. And I bet you could take him again, too."

Sam shook his head, having no intention of fighting again with Dirk McGregor – that was more Dean's style than his – and wishing everybody would let the issue drop.

"Well..." Barry sighed, glancing at the clock in the hall. "Guess we should – "

"Wait..." Sam interrupted, looking past Barry to the far end of the hall toward the school's entrance. "Do you hear that?"

Barry paused and turned, following Sam's gaze. "Hear what?"

But the words had barely left Barry's mouth before he _did_ hear it – a sharp, rapid _pop..._the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired.

Barry frowned as the sound came again, followed by screams of panic and fear and pain. "Oh my god..." he gasped quietly and turned back to face his friend. "Is that a – "

"Yes," Sam responded, feeling remarkably calm as his training took hold; because he knew about guns...knew about the kinds of people who used guns...knew what to do when someone tried to use a gun on you.

"Get down!" Sam ordered, dropping his books to the floor and reaching for Barry.

"What?" Barry asked, too shocked to think clearly much less move.

"_Down!_" Sam repeated loudly, motioning to other students around them and then shoving his friend to the floor seconds before another shot was fired nearby.

...which would take the total number of bullets discharged up to four...which would mean there were probably only two bullets left to fire before the shooter would have to reload.

Sam continued to crouch beside Barry, trying to decide what he should do; what Dad would do...what _Dean_ would do.

Sam's attention jerked to the opposite end of the hall at the thought of his brother; not seeing Dean in the frenzied crowd that clogged the hall and hoping that meant Dean and Amanda were still safe in the janitor's closet...even though Sam would give anything to see his big brother striding down the hall in his direction right about now.

"Oh my god...oh my god...oh my god..." Barry chanted hysterically, still face down on the floor as other students yelled and ran; some taking cover in classrooms or bathrooms while others ducked behind the nearby water fountain or simply sprawled on the floor as well.

"We're gonna die!" a red-haired girl moaned through her tears as she lay beside Barry; her hands grasping either side of her head. "We're all gonna die!"

Sam swallowed his own panic and fear and shook his head as he continued to crouch. "No," he assured with more confidence than he felt. "It's gonna be okay."

"How?" the red-head demanded as another voice rang out in the hall.

"Hey!"

And even before Sam looked, he knew who he was going to see; knew he was the one being called to.

Dirk smiled his satisfaction as Sam looked at him; pleased with the fear he saw in the new kid's eyes.

Sam swallowed, staring at Dirk as the larger boy pointed a gun straight at his chest.

"Stand up," Dirk ordered, his expression as hard and cold and empty as he felt.

"Sam! No!" Barry hissed, angling his head to look up at Sam from the floor.

Sam glanced at his friend.

"_Now_, Winchester..." Dirk growled, his gaze as unwavering as his aim.

Sam sighed and then glanced over his shoulder – _desperate_ for his brother – but slowly stood to face the danger looming ahead...because that's what hunters did.

Dirk shook his head at the scrawny kid standing in front of him; freshly pissed that _this_ was the kid who had kicked his ass in front of practically the entire school yesterday...and then had christened him with that fucking nickname.

"Who's the jerk now, Winchester?" Dirk asked, the taunt having sounded cooler in his head.

Sam said nothing, nervously shifting on his feet as his mind raced for a way out of this situation; his backup plan having always been Dean or Dad...but neither were here, so...

"I'm going to enjoy this," Dirk gloated, slowly cocking the gun he held; so focused on his aim that he didn't notice the male teacher silently creeping up behind him.

Sam blinked, his gaze flickering to Mr. Wyatt and then back to Dirk; not wanting to alert Dirk as to what was about to happen

"Dirk..." Sam began, hating how his voice trembled. "Just...just put the gun down, and we'll talk about this...okay?

Dirk shook his head. "Too late for talking," he answered. "I hate you about as much as I hate my life, so I figured first one..." He nodded at Sam. "...and then the other."

Sam frowned as Dirk indicated himself with the gun. "No, Dirk," he protested and took a step forward. "Nothing is worth killing yourself over, man...or anyone else, either. Let's just – "

Dirk shook his head again and extended his arm; the gun pointing back at Sam. "Shut up."

Sam did, wondering if his English teacher was ever going to make his move on Dirk...or just spend precious seconds _preparing_ to make his move.

_Jesus..._

Dirk smiled, the expression strangely vacant; as if part of him was already gone. "See you on the other side, Winchester..."

Sam shook his head in denial as his heart hammered in his chest. He swallowed against the sudden urge to throw up and closed his eyes; feeling his body tense in anticipation of being shot at the same time he heard his name being called behind him.

Reacting on instinct to Dean's voice, Sam turned; feeling instantly relieved at the sight of his brother running toward him down the hall.

But the relief was short-lived as Dirk fired the gun.

In the same instant, Mr. Wyatt finally made his move; grabbing Dirk from behind and pinning the boy's arms to his side, causing the shot to go wide.

Screams of renewed panic filled the hall as students reacted to the scene.

But all Sam could hear was Dean calling his name again, telling him to get down.

Sam nodded that he had heard his brother and then jerked awkwardly to the side and slightly back in an effort to dodge the advancing bullet.

But Sam was too late; the shot slamming into his right shoulder and throwing him to the floor even as Dean yelled his name once more.

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><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

"Sam!" Dean called, his voice raw from the volume and intensity with which he screamed his brother's name; feeling as though he was running in slow-motion; as though he was powerless to stop what was about to happen.

Because he was.

In the next instant, there was the distinct sound of a bullet entering flesh mingled with the enraged shouts of Dirk as he struggled in the teacher's unyielding grasp.

The hall erupted in a deafening echo of screams from panicked students, but Dean only heard Sam cry out – a sound of shock and pain – as the shot hit him.

"No!" Dean yelled, as if doing so would somehow change what had just happened, and watched in horror as Sam crumpled to the floor in an unmoving heap.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Dirk fumed, bucking in the teacher's arms; squirming and kicking in an attempt to break free.

Another male teacher approached, cautiously kicking the gun further down the hall from where Dirk had dropped it after being initially restrained. "Calm down, son," he warned, grabbing Dirk's flailing arms.

Dean clenched his jaw as rage surged through him – the kind of all-consuming rage that made _him_ want to kill somebody – but he quickly pushed it down.

Because while Dean wanted Dirk's head on a fucking platter...all that mattered right now was Sam.

"Sammy..." Dean called; dropping to his knees as he finally reached his brother.

Beside him, Sam's friend – Barry...or something – was still sprawled face down on the floor; wide-eyed and speechless as his gaze flickered between Sam and Dean.

"Oh my god..." a red-haired girl from nearby whispered in disbelief; her eyes also focused on Sam's motionless body. "Is he dead?"

"No," Dean snapped, even as his own heart hammered in his chest at the possibility.

Because Sam was _too fucking still_ for his liking.

"Sam..." Dean called again, gently grasping his brother's uninjured shoulder and breathing a sigh of overwhelming relief when the kid instantly stirred under his touch.

"He's moving," the girl needlessly reported, and then said it again when Dean didn't respond.

"That's good, right?" Barry asked hopefully.

Dean ignored them; wishing they would both shut the fuck up, so he could tend to his brother in peace.

_Jesus..._

Dean turned Sam from his side, further rousing his brother as he settled the kid on his back. "C'mon, Sammy. That's my boy..." he praised as Sam's eyes fluttered open.

Sam blinked owlishly as Dean hovered over him. "D'n..."

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean responded, beginning to visually triage his brother. "Who else would put up with you constantly scaring the shit out of them?"

Sam's mouth twitched in a smile – recognizing Dean's worry and fear underneath his trademark sarcasm – and then shifted uncomfortably on the floor; hissing as excruciating pain blazed a fiery path from his right shoulder down his arm to his chilled, tingling fingers.

Dean frowned at his brother's obvious pain. "Easy, Sam. You're okay."

Sam scrunched his face – because he sure as hell didn't _feel_ okay – and slowly became more aware; feeling the cool tiled floor beneath him; seeing the familiar row of lockers looming over him; hearing Dirk's swear-filled rant rising above the murmuring crowd that was beginning to gather around him.

Dean followed Sam's gaze over his shoulder and glared at the traumatized yet fascinated onlookers. "Back off," he warned and stared at the other students until they began to do so.

"Everybody outside," a female teacher's voice suddenly ordered, further dispersing the crowd as she approached. "Let's go...move it...out...now...go..."

Two more teachers joined her efforts; herding kids toward the exit at the end of the hall while offering their own words of encouragement and direction.

The students obeyed; too dazed by the surreal events of the morning to make a fuss; following each other down the hall and out of the building to gather on the sidewalk and compare stories of what they had seen while hugging and crying and trying to make sense of what had happened.

"You two..." one of the teachers called, pointing at Barry and the red-haired girl still lying on the floor next to Sam. "Show's over. Get up. Let's go."

"But – " Barry began, stopping as the teacher held up her hand.

"_Now_," was all she said, and both students reluctantly got to their feet and followed her down the hall; Barry looking over his shoulder at Sam as he walked.

"Oh my god..." someone quietly gasped, and Dean glanced up to see Amanda standing over him; her hand pressed to her chest in distress and disbelief. "Is...is he okay?"

Dean nodded. "He's fine," he responded tightly, even though he hadn't had a chance to check Sam's wound yet because there were _too many fucking people_ interrupting him.

"What can I do?" Amanda asked; her tone genuine and concerned.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing. Just give us some space," he told her and turned back to focus on his brother.

Amanda hesitated – wanting to stay – but knew Dean would not react well to her doing so...especially after he had already asked her to leave.

Amanda sighed and moved away from the brothers; glancing at Dirk as she passed by him on her way out of the building.

"What the fuck are you looking at, princess?" Dirk snapped at her and jerked once more in the teachers' grasp.

"Shut it, Dirk," one of the teachers ordered, tightening his hold on the boy's arm before directing his attention to Dean. "How's Sam doing?"

"I hope he's fucking dead!" Dirk yelled before Dean could answer.

And as Dean glared heatedly over his shoulder, he wondered if Dirk knew how fucking dead _he_ would be if he made another move on Sam.

"I said shut your mouth!" the teacher barked and bodily shook Dirk for emphasis.

Dean felt a wave of satisfaction at seeing Dirk handled so roughly and belatedly recognized the teacher doing so as one of Sam's; one his brother really liked...Mr. Wyatt.

"Is he okay?" Mr. Wyatt asked, glancing again at Dean.

"I think so," Dean responded and turned back to his brother; frowning at the tears welling in Sam's eyes. "Sammy? What's wrong?"

Sam inhaled a shaky breath. "Is...is everybody else okay?"

Dean paused – having honestly forgotten that anybody else had been shot – and glanced over his shoulder at the four other students scattered on the hallway floor; each with their own small group of teachers and friends trying to help them.

Dean sighed and directed his attention back to Sam; feeling a surge of love and pride in this kid who had a bullet in his shoulder...and yet was still concerned about others' well-being more than his own.

Sam stared up at his brother. "Are they okay?" he asked again; sounding like the scared, overwhelmed kid that he was.

"I don't know," Dean answered truthfully, brushing Sam's bangs from his eyes and palming the kid's forehead. "Let's just worry about you right now, okay?"

Sam swallowed. "Okay," he agreed quietly.

"Okay," Dean returned, not liking how cool and clammy Sam's skin felt under his touch or how pale the kid looked.

Sam frowned at Dean's expression. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean answered casually, even as he shrugged out of his leather jacket and covered his little brother with it. "Just think you're getting a little shocky on me."

Sam nodded – because he _felt_ a little shocky – and blinked sluggishly as Dean's fingers pressed against the side of his neck.

Dean sighed at the expected weak and rapid pulse that thrummed under his fingers and shook his head; knowing shock was a normal reaction to the kind of trauma Sam had just sustained but not liking it one fucking bit.

"Is he okay?" Mr. Wyatt asked again, having heard Dean's comment about Sam going into shock.

And while Dean knew the teacher was concerned, he really wished the man would just _shut up_.

"Is – " Mr. Wyatt started to ask again.

"He's okay," Dean interrupted, his tone sharp with annoyance, and then chuckled at the weak bitchface Sam gave him in silent reprimand for snapping at his teacher.

Behind him, Mr. Wyatt sighed and then said something to Dirk.

But Dean didn't hear exactly what and didn't care; once again completely focused on Sam.

"Alright, Sammy..." Dean sighed and nodded toward Sam's shoulder. "Let's see how bad you were hit..."

Sam swallowed and watched as his brother began the familiar routine of triaging his injury.

Dean lowered his leather jacket from where it was covering Sam and draped it over his brother's legs; his fingers pushing aside the zippered edge of Sam's light brown jacket and curling around the hem of the kid's plaid buttoned shirt as he lifted the fabric along with the white t-shirt underneath.

Dean shook his head at the amount of blood that had leaked down from the shoulder wound and was beginning to coat Sam's small, narrow chest; red ripples branching out like tree roots.

"Ah, Sammy..." Dean sighed, ducking his head at the same time he lifted Sam's clothing higher; angling for a better view of the wound that was still obscured by the layers Sam always wore.

Sam flinched as Dean's struggle with his jacket and shirts unintentionally jarred his injury; gasping as his breath stuttered to a stop.

Dean froze. "Sam?"

Sam remained silent; his face contorting in pain.

"Sammy?"

Sam swallowed. "H-hurts," he choked out – the strain in his voice indicating that was an understatement – and weakly waved his left hand in the direction of Dean's hand hovering over his right shoulder and bunching the wad of fabric from his shirts and jacket.

Dean's gaze followed Sam's gesture, immediately realizing the problem. "Shit, Sam. Sorry, kiddo..." he apologized; lowering his hand to release some of the incidental pressure that had been placed on his brother's wound when he had lifted the kid's clothing. "Better?"

Sam nodded and shifted on the floor; his breath catching again as he accidently jarred his own injured shoulder with the movement. "Damn it..." he hissed and squeezed his eyes shut; his left hand crossing over his stomach to grasp his right elbow in an attempt to stabilize his aching arm.

Dean quirked a smile at Sam's uncharacteristic – although still mild – curse. "Dude, such language..." he teasingly scolded.

Sam opened his eyes; another weak bitchface making an appearance.

Dean chuckled; smoothing Sam's shirts and jacket over the kid's thin chest and then reaching instead for the blood-stained collar of his brother's t-shirt; gently pulling away the fabric to see the wound he knew was there.

Sam's face scrunched as he tensed in anticipation of his wound being touched. "Dean..."

"I know, Sammy," Dean assured, seeing the anxiety on the kid's face. "It's okay. We'll just do this like any other injury, okay?"

Sam nodded jerkily, knowing what that meant.

"Okay," Dean agreed and then smiled encouragingly at his brother and nodded. "Go ahead."

Sam hesitated but then inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, beginning his countdown. "Ten...nine..."

Dean sighed – knowing he had the time it took Sam to reach "one" to complete his inspection of the kid's wound – and resumed his careful examination of the ragged hole carved out by the bullet that had entered Sam's shoulder.

"Eight..."

Dean squinted at the wound – swollen, inflamed, and still oozing blood – and probed the area with deft fingers.

"S-seven..."

Dean glanced at Sam as his brother's voice trembled. "You're doing good, Sammy," he praised quietly and then focused back on the kid's right shoulder.

"Six..."

Dean frowned as he continued his examination of his brother and realized Sam's collarbone was obviously broken – having most likely taken the impact of the bullet as it had tried to exit the kid's body.

"Shit," Dean mouthed, careful not to lend any voice to the word; only his lips moving to express his frustration but not wanting to further upset Sam with more bad news.

"Five..." Sam whispered, his face scrunched in pain as he sought comfort; his left hand releasing its stabilizing hold on his right arm and instead reaching for his brother. "Dean..."

"I know, Sammy. I know," Dean assured calmly. "Just a few more seconds, kiddo. You can do it."

Sam swallowed audibly; his hand finding Dean's leg as his brother continued to kneel beside him; his small fingers twisting in the fabric of Dean's jeans.

"Sammy..." Dean prompted; his hand – fingers stained with blood – hovering over the kid's wound as he waited for Sam to resume the countdown.

Sam nodded and inhaled shakily. "F-four..."

Dean smiled softly. "Atta boy," he praised and gently rolled Sam toward him, checking the kid's back for an exit wound...but finding none.

Sam's fingers twitched at being momentarily moved to his side. "Thr – " he paused, gripping the denim of Dean's jeans even harder. "Three..."

Dean eased his brother back to the floor and swallowed a sigh at the realization of what he had suspected all along – that the bullet was still in his little brother.

Most likely lodged under the kid's collarbone...

"Two..." Sam whispered and winced as he felt his brother touch his wound again.

Dean's hand skimmed the hole in his brother's shoulder; the kid's raggedly torn skin slippery with blood and overly warm to the touch.

"One..." Sam finally finished and then whimpered as his body involuntarily twitched under Dean's gently palpating fingers. "Dean..."

"I know," Dean answered, realizing his time was up and removing his hand from Sam's wound; carefully smoothing the kid's shirts and jacket back into place. "I'm done, Sammy."

Sam nodded and released a shuddering sigh; his hand still grasping Dean's leg; seeking comfort and strength while trying to regain his bearings.

Dean smiled affectionately – _proudly_ – at Sam and then wiped his blood-stained fingers across his own shirt before readjusting his leather jacket over his brother; pulling it higher and loosely tucking it around the kid's small body.

"Sammy..." Dean called and waited for his brother to look at him.

Sam sighed and opened his eyes when he felt Dean's hand sweep under his bangs and rest on his forehead.

Dean's thumb rubbed soothingly between Sam's eyes; smoothing the lines of pain and exhaustion. "How you feelin'?" he asked; unable to stop himself, even though he already knew; had obviously just inspected his brother's wound and could see the kid's pale, sweaty face along with the blood that was seeping through Sam's shirts.

Sam shifted uncomfortably on the floor as he stared up at his brother; wondering if Dean realized how just his touch could soothe him...even though he knew Dean would call him a girl if he ever confessed that.

Dean frowned at Sam's silence. "Sammy..." he called again. "Talk to me. How you feelin'?"

Sam sighed; his eyes dipping closed and then back open as fatigue and trauma began to become overwhelming. "Like I've been shot," he answered dryly and then tried to smile.

Dean scowled. "Dude..." he lightly admonished. "That is _so_ not funny."

Sam laughed softly and then coughed as his eyes briefly closed again. "It kinda is."

"No, it's definitely _not_," Dean countered sharply – though there was no heat to his words – and then rubbed Sam's chest. "Hey. Look at me."

Sam sighed but opened his eyes.

"Stay with me, okay?" Dean urged, continuing to rub Sam's narrow chest. "No sleeping just yet. Got it?"

Sam nodded, making an obvious effort to stay awake.

Dean chuckled fondly at how ridiculous his little brother looked trying to blink his eyes wider.

There was a beat of silence before Sam spoke.

"It's still in there, isn't it?" he asked quietly, referring to the bullet. "And it broke my collarbone..."

Dean nodded; his hand still reassuringly – _soothingly_ – rubbing back and forth over Sam's chest.

Sam returned the nod. "I can feel it," he told his brother and then shifted uncomfortably once again; the pain on the upper right half of his torso pulsing so strongly that he couldn't tell whether the majority of it was coming from the gunshot wound or from the resulting broken collarbone.

"You're gonna be fine," Dean assured his brother and then glanced over his shoulder as the whine of quickly approaching sirens drifted through the open door at the end of the school's hallway.

"The ambulance is here," Mr. Wyatt reported needlessly and then glanced meaningfully at Dirk still held between himself and the other teacher. "And so are the cops."

Dean nodded and then directed his attention back to his brother, frowning at Sam's expression.

Sam's eyes widened in slight panic at the mention of the two things hunters – and especially Winchesters – avoided at all costs...hospitals and law enforcement.

"It's okay," Dean calmed his brother; knowing the kid's thoughts and knowing there was no way around doctors or police this time.

"But Dad..." Sam whispered, drowsy and worried.

Dean shrugged. Because last time he checked, "wounded in a school shooting" wasn't in their scenario playbook – which meant their usual rules didn't apply.

And as much as he wanted to handle it on his own – just like he always did – Dean knew Sam's injury was beyond his help; wasn't something that could be patched up in a motel room with a surgical first aid kit from a military surplus store.

Because the bullet was _under_ Sam's broken collarbone – Dean would bet money on it – and that meant Sam needed _real _doctors to perform _real_ surgery...which meant the kid was going to the hospital...and John Winchester could get the fuck over it.

"D'n..." Sam called, the name slurred and quiet as his eyes closed; losing his battle of staying conscious; the fingers of his left hand slowly releasing their grip on the fabric of Dean's jeans.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean soothed, feeling his brother slipping away and hearing the clatter of medics approaching behind him with a stretcher.

Sam blinked sluggishly; barely conscious as he stubbornly clung to his brother.

Dean smiled affectionately at the kid he loved so damn much. "You can sleep if you want to," he granted his little brother, knowing Sam wanted his permission before defying Dean's earlier order to stay awake.

A flicker of a smile crossed Sam's lips before he swallowed and closed his eyes.

Dean watched as Sam went limp; feeling the boneless slump of unconsciousness beneath his hand that still rested on the kid's chest.

"It'll all be better when you wake up," Dean told his brother; smiling sadly to himself at the familiar promise and hoping he was right this time.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

The one characteristic all hospitals shared was the way they smelled; sickness, trauma, and death masked with disinfectants strong enough to make noses wrinkle, eyes water...and maybe even momentarily distract from the gravity of the situation that had brought a person to the hospital to begin with.

"Sure smells to high heaven in here..." a woman commented to Dean's left, sitting two chairs down from him in the waiting room of the local hospital. "Wonder what kind of cleaner they use...do you know?"

There was a beat of silence filled with a doctor being paged over the intercom as a phone rang nearby.

"Do you know?" she asked again, louder and her tone more insistent.

Dean glanced at her, belatedly realizing she was talking to him – since he was the only other person in the waiting room – and wondered if he looked like Martha fucking Stewart.

Because how the hell was he supposed to know what type of cleaner had been used based on smell alone?

And why the fuck should he care?

Sam was in surgery.

That was all that mattered to Dean right now.

The woman – with graying hair that framed her thin face and wire glasses that made her beady eyes look even smaller – blinked at Dean expectantly.

_Well...do you?_ her expression asked.

Dean snorted – because he didn't have time or patience for stupid shit like this – and turned away from her; glancing instead at the clock on the far wall and subconsciously readjusting the amulet around his neck as his thoughts continued to center around Sam; _hating it_ when he was separated from his brother...especially when the kid was sick or injured.

"I think that clock is broken," the woman reported, having followed Dean's gaze when he had looked away from her. "No way does time move _that_ damn slowly."

Dean nodded his agreement.

Because he felt like it had been several hours since he had last seen Sam; since the kid had been wheeled out of the ER and into an elevator...bound for surgery. But according to the clock, it had barely been an hour.

Dean sighed, continuing to sit on the edge of the maroon cushioned chair with his elbows resting on his bouncing legs – a rarely displayed nervous habit of his – as his hands hung between his knees.

"Hear about that school shooting?" the woman asked, nodding at the small television hanging on the wall beside the clock and then shaking her head; her expression equal parts sad and disgusted. "The world's gone crazy, if you ask me..."

"The world's _been _crazy," Dean corrected her – because if only she knew... – and stared at the images flashing on the screen.

Shaky aerial footage showed huddles of students crowding the sidewalk outside of Truman...and then there was a quick transition to ground footage showing police securing the area with wide yellow tape – warning in black bold letters not to cross – while medics wheeled out the injured on stretchers.

"Hey..." the woman called, and Dean could hear her leaning forward in her chair to get a better look at the television. "That's you."

Dean nodded, watching himself on screen walk beside Sam as the stretcher that was carrying his brother was swiftly moved from the school to the waiting ambulance; his hand grasping Sam's as the kid lay unmoving beneath the blankets – and also beneath Dean's leather jacket – that covered the straps which held him in place.

"Oh my god..." the woman breathed in awe and reverence, and Dean could feel her staring at him. "You were there."

Dean nodded again, still focused on the television; watching as he and Sam disappeared behind the closing doors of the ambulance and remembering the ride to the hospital; the way he had held Sam's small, limp hand for every mile; the way the medics had smiled their encouragement about his brother's condition while talking in shocked, hushed tones about what had happened that morning at the school.

Dean sighed and glanced again at the clock on the wall before glancing at the woman; not surprised to see sympathy reflected in her eyes; her features and overall demeanor seeming softer and more tolerable than before...almost motherly.

"I guess you're okay," the woman observed, her eyes sweeping over Dean before she paused. "But that kid..."

"Sam," Dean told her, hating it when strangers referred to his brother so namelessly.

The woman nodded. "Sam," she repeated and then smiled, as people often did when they said Sam's name whether they knew him or not.

There was a pause; the woman's attention flickering to the television and then back to Dean.

"He looked like such a little fella on that stretcher...like he wasn't even old enough to _be_ in high school..." she commented and shook her head; on the verge of tears. "Such a precious sweetheart he is..."

Dean felt his lips twitch in a smile. Because Sam wasn't even present...yet his little brother _still_ had this woman proverbially eating out of his hand; thinking he was adorable and sweet and probably being willing to do just about anything the kid would ask.

The woman blinked away the moisture in her eyes and sighed. "Where is Sam now? Is he okay?"

"He should be," Dean answered vaguely, appreciating the woman's concern – because Sam deserved it – but not interested in sharing details about his brother with a stranger.

The woman nodded. "Good," she said and smiled softly. "I'm glad to hear that. Hope he pulls through okay. And I hope he knows what a good friend you are, staying with him that whole time and then waiting out here for him."

"Just doing my job," Dean told her and then quirked a self-deprecating smile. "Which is what I should've been doing all along, and none of this would've happened."

The woman arched a questioning eyebrow.

"Sam's my brother," Dean further explained and felt unexpectedly sappy at the confession.

"Oh, I see..." the woman replied quietly, seeming to become a little sappy herself. "My goodness." She shook her head. "How horrible it must have been for you to have seen what happened to him."

Dean nodded distractedly; his mind flashing the image of that bullet from Dirk's gun slamming into Sam's shoulder and dropping his brother to the floor.

"I should've been there," Dean commented, surprising himself at making that admission to a stranger.

The woman frowned, looking confused. "You _were_ there."

"Yeah," Dean snorted disgustedly. "After it was over, and Sammy was shot and bleeding on the fucking floor."

"Ah, I see," the woman replied at Dean's heated response and nodded thoughtfully; seeming to realize the new direction of their conversation. "Tell me...are you psychic?"

Dean cut his eyes at her. "What?"

"Are you psychic?" she repeated and then clarified as if Dean didn't know what that term meant. "Are you able to predict the future...able to see it before it happens?"

Dean scowled at the woman sitting two chairs down from him in the waiting room; wondering if _she_ was psychic and hoping he hadn't unintentionally found some supernatural whack-job – because he really didn't have time for that today.

Seriously.

"Are you?" the woman prompted; her tone matching her expectant expression.

"No," Dean answered, still watching her skeptically; knowing he should return the same question to her – that was what his training had taught, was what John would expect – but not having the energy to pursue the issue.

"Didn't think so," the woman agreed about Dean not being psychic. "So then, how were you supposed to know what was going to happen this morning at that school? Or that your brother was going to end up getting shot?"

Dean stared at her; belatedly realizing what she was trying to do and understanding her logic...but was unimpressed by either.

"I should've just _known,_" Dean told her. "Big brothers always know..." he added more quietly and looked away from her; glancing back at the clock.

The woman sighed but nodded her understanding of _his_ logic; knowing the only person who could truly absolve this big brother...was his little brother. And while her advice meant well, it was not the balm this older boy needed; could not soothe his bruised conscience or pardon him from what he perceived as his unforgiveable negligence of his primary responsibility.

Because that little fella she had seen lying on that stretcher on television a few minutes ago – Sam – was clearly _everything _to this older kid in the leather jacket sitting two chairs down from her.

"Well..." the woman sighed, not knowing what else to say.

There was a beat of silence filled with nurses murmuring in the hall as they gathered around their station, checking charts and answering phones.

"Are your mom and dad here?" the woman finally asked – hoping to dispel some of the awkwardness that had once again settled between them – and expectantly glanced around the area beyond the waiting room as if she would catch a glimpse of the brothers' parents.

"Our dad's on his way," Dean told her, leaving out the detail of their mom being dead because he couldn't handle any more sympathy from this woman.

She nodded, her gaze flickering past Dean. "Is that him?"

Dean shook his head, not even turning to look. Because no matter how fast John drove, there was no way their dad had already arrived at the hospital – not when John had been in a neighboring state and over three hours away when Dean had called him almost an hour ago to report what had happened.

Dean glanced again at the clock on the wall and sighed as he remembered their phone call.

"You need to come back," he had said without preamble when John had answered his phone on the third ring; having sounded as jittery as he had felt as his adrenaline had begun to wane in the aftermath of the initial crisis; Sam having been relatively okay and in surgery at that point.

"What?" John had asked; his tone having been distracted with a trace of anger at being disturbed while scouting a hunt _and_ ordered around by his oldest. "Whatever it is, Dean, just take care of it. You know I'm in the middle of something out here."

Dean had scowled; had been instantly pissed. "I _have_ taken care of it," he had coolly responded; his grip having tightened around his phone. "As much as I could, anyway... But you still need to come back here. _Now._"

John had sighed; the volume and intensity with which he had done so indicating his level of annoyance. "Why?"

Dean had snorted at being asked to further explain himself; as if John had needed a reason beyond just his oldest son calling in barely controlled panic.

"Because Sam's been fucking shot –_ that's _why!" Dean had snapped; not having had the patience to deal with John's shitty attitude...not when his kid brother's blood had still stained his shirt and hands from earlier when he had assessed the kid on the floor of the school's hallway.

"He's been _what?_" John had asked sharply; his tone having instantly changed from irritated and pissed to shocked and worried. "Dean..."

Dean had remained silent as he had stood just outside the automatic doors of the ER with his phone pressed against his ear; having known John had heard him and thinking that hearing such news once was enough.

"Dean!" John had yelled over the phone; the sounds of rapid movement having filled the silence as though he had started walking faster; twigs snapping, leaves rustling. "Talk to me. What happened? Is Sam okay?"

Dean had sighed; had closed his eyes and had pinched the bridge of his nose as he had walked a tight circle on the hospital's sidewalk in an effort to get a grip. "He should be fine," he had assured his dad. "It's just a shoulder wound, but – "

"Which shoulder?" John had interrupted over the familiar creak of the Impala's trunk being opened.

"Right shoulder," Dean had responded and had nodded in agreement as John had sworn at the news. "I know," he had returned, because that was Sam's dominant side. "Plus, the bullet broke the kid's collarbone as it tried to exit."

"Well, of course it did..." John had replied dryly, and Dean had pictured their dad shaking his head at Sam's luck. "What else?"

Dean had opened his eyes and had laughed humorlessly. "Isn't that enough?"

John had hummed his agreement while he had tossed something heavy into the trunk.

"He was relatively alert after it happened," Dean had further reported and had glanced at two medics as they had exited the ER. "But then he got a little shocky and lost consciousness as the ambulance arrived."

"Shit, Sam..." John had sighed; worry in his voice.

Dean had nodded, knowing the feeling.

"Where is he now? In surgery?" John had wanted to know as he had slammed the Impala's trunk.

"Yeah," Dean had answered and had stepped out of the way of an approaching stretcher on the sidewalk. "They just took him. And you need to be here when he wakes up."

The sound of keys being snatched from a pocket and a car door being opened had preceded John's response. "Absolutely," he had agreed heartily. "I'm on my way."

"Good," Dean had responded; had instantly felt like part of the weight had been lifted from his own shoulders.

There had been a pause as the Impala's engine had cranked.

"What about insurance?" John had ventured. "Anybody give you shit about that yet?"

"No," Dean had answered honestly. "The school is taking care of it...or something. I don't know. But I was told not to worry about it."

"Huh," John had mused; had sounded confused but relieved by that unexpected detail. "Well, good."

There had been another pause, and Dean had felt his stomach twist in anticipation of what he had known was coming.

"So...tell me what happened," John had ordered; his voice assuming that hard edge it always did when something – or s_omeone_ – had intentionally harmed one of his boys.

Dean had clenched his jaw at the question; had been freshly pissed at the entire situation. "Some crazy-ass kid opened fire at school this morning...shot a bunch of other kids."

"Jesus..." John had quietly sworn. "And as usual, Sammy was in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Dean had swallowed as he had leaned against the brick wall of the hospital's exterior; had known exactly where the conversation with his dad was headed. "Something like that," he had answered.

There had been another pause, and Dean had felt himself physically bracing for the question he had known John would ask next; had even mouthed it along with his dad.

"And where were you?"

Dean had sighed; had not needed any extra guilt and yet had felt it double with that question.

"Dean..."

"I was down the hall," Dean had replied vaguely; had left out the part about being in a janitor's closet with a girl while his little brother had been alone and had had a gun pointed at his chest. "I got to him as soon as I could, Dad."

"Yeah. I know you did," John had agreed; his tone having been proud and yet quietly disappointed. "But it wasn't soon enough, huh?"

Dean had sighed again; had felt ridiculously close to tears. "No, sir."

There had been silence; nothing but the rumble of the Impala's engine on the opposite end of the line.

"Well..." John had echoed Dean's earlier sigh; had sounded as tired as Dean had felt. "What's done is done," he had declared. "And as long as Sam is gonna be okay – and as long as the cops got the little bastard who shot him – that's all that matters right now. We'll deal with the rest when I get there, okay?"

Dean had nodded; had glanced at a nurse in green scrubs as she had walked by him. "Yes, sir."

"Good," John had returned. "And be sure to get all the details on Sam's recovery...meds and wound care and whatever else, because we'll be leaving tonight. We don't need this kind of attention, Dean."

"I know," Dean had responded; had been slightly irritated at the reminder. "But Sam – "

"Needed a hospital," John had finished. "I get that. And in this situation, I completely agree. Sam needed a doctor. But we don't need the _police_ in our business, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean had replied; having not been surprised by John's plan...but still not liking it; having wanted Sam to at least stay overnight in the hospital before they left town.

There had been another pause.

"I'm about three hours away," John had reported; his voice having been muffled as though he had reached over into the passenger seat for something. "I'll swing by the motel first to pick up the duffels and whatever else, and then I'll be at the hospital. Take care of things until I get there, Dean."

"Always do," Dean had reminded and had ended the call without further discussion.

"Dean..."

Dean blinked, scattering his thoughts about his conversation with John, and turned in the direction his name was called; seeing Mr. Wyatt – the man the woman had thought was his dad – walking toward him.

"Your dad?" the woman asked again, seeming like she hoped it was.

Dean shook his head – imagining John's scowl if he had heard her say that – and stood; meeting Sam's teacher's halfway down the hall.

"How's Sam?" Mr. Wyatt asked; his tone concerned as Dean approached.

"In surgery," Dean reported curtly and asked a question of his own. "Where's Dirk?"

"In custody," Mr. Wyatt responded; his hands on his hips as he shook his head and laughed the breathy laugh of shock and disbelief. "I still just can't believe what happened today."

"Believe it," Dean advised; his tone clipped as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "What's gonna happen to Dirk?"

Because Dean had a few ideas if anybody needed suggestions...

Mr. Wyatt shrugged. "Well, it's in the hands of the justice system now. He'll be kept in the juvenile detention center until his hearing. But I think right now, the district attorney is waiting to hear about the conditions of all the victims in order to know the full charges being pressed."

There was a pause.

"Is Sam going to be okay?" Mr. Wyatt asked hesitantly; his voice quiet as if he knew he was treading on potentially dangerous ground.

Dean nodded. "He should be fine."

Mr. Wyatt returned the nod, staring at Dean as though he expected more details.

Dean stared back; not in a sharing mood.

"I see," Mr. Wyatt finally responded and smiled politely; always fascinated when siblings were so different from each other – like Sam and Dean.

Dean glanced at a passing nurse but did not return her smile. "Anything?" he asked her hopefully.

The nurse shook her head; her smile faltering at Dean's desperate expression as the end of her blond ponytail brushed against her pale blue scrubs. "Not yet," she answered, her attention flickering between Dean and the teacher. "But last I heard from the OR, everything was going well and was on schedule. Should be maybe another 15 or 20 minutes..."

Dean sighed harshly...because that was 15 or 20 minutes _too long_.

The nurse squeezed Dean's arm encouragingly. "I'll come get you as soon as Sam's in recovery, okay?"

Dean nodded, watching as she walked away; her ponytail swaying with each step she took.

Mr. Wyatt glanced in the nurse's direction and then shifted from where he continued to stand opposite Dean in the middle of the hallway. "Well..." He cleared his throat, not quite sure what else to say to Sam's brother. "I just came from checking on the other four students who were injured."

Dean didn't initially respond; more interested about his brother's condition than that of strangers' but knowing Sam would ask him later if he knew whether the others were okay, so...

Dean sighed. "And?" he prompted.

Mr. Wyatt smiled, clearly relieved that Dean seemed interested in the news he was about to report. "Three have already been treated and released; just grazed since it seems Dirk wasn't aiming...he was just shooting."

Dean snorted disgustedly. "Yeah...except for Sam."

Mr. Wyatt nodded and shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah," he agreed and paused before continuing. "The fourth kid is in good condition; just being kept overnight for observation as a precaution but should be able to go home tomorrow. And then that just leaves Sam..."

The teacher trailed off uncertainly; his last words seeming to hang in the air as an awkward silence settled around them.

Several seconds passed before Mr. Wyatt sighed.

"I'm sorry," he offered genuinely. "If I had moved faster...had grabbed Dirk just one second earlier than I did, Sam might've – "

"Yeah, I know," Dean interrupted brusquely; appreciating the gesture but not wanting the teacher's apology.

Because John had been right; what was done was done. Mr. Wyatt's words about what he _should have done_ were useless now; could not take back what had happened; could not remove the bullet in Sam's shoulder or take away the kid's pain and trauma.

Besides, Dean had enough of his own guilt without having Mr. Wyatt's added to the mix.

Mr. Wyatt nodded, seeming to understand Dean's gruff response and yet needing to continue. "I just..." he smiled sadly. "I just wish I could've saved Sam, you know?"

Dean returned the nod – because oh yeah...he knew.

Mr. Wyatt held Dean's gaze before clearing his throat self-consciously. "Anyway..." He sighed. "I just wanted to drop by and check on Sam and..."

The teacher's voice trailed off as his attention shifted over Dean's shoulder; smiling at the familiar face as the girl approached; remembering when she had been in his English class a couple years go.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the teacher's friendly expression directed beyond him and narrowed his eyes; listening to the quick, light footsteps coming down the hall and knowing he would see Amanda when he turned around.

And while he was thankful for the distraction she provided – for not having to continue to deal with Sam's well-meaning but mildly annoying teacher – he was also not in the mood to deal with Amanda, either.

Because the guy she thought she knew...the version of Dean she had made out with in the janitor's closet just a few hours ago...was gone; was now replaced by a concerned big brother who only had one priority – and it wasn't her.

Dean shook his head at himself.

Because if he had just maintained that outlook earlier today...

"Dean..." Amanda called and then suddenly appeared beside him, looking pale and anxious. "Hey."

Dean glanced at her; surprising even himself by how indifferent he felt at the sight of her standing there. "Hey."

Amanda smiled weakly, seeming uncomfortable – undoubtedly sensing a change in the older Winchester brother – and then directed her attention to her former teacher. "Hi, Mr. Wyatt," she greeted politely.

Mr. Wyatt nodded. "Amanda," he returned and smiled tiredly. "How are you?"

Dean sighed loudly and resisted the urge to roll his eyes; hating pleasantries and having no patience for their exchange...especially today.

Amanda glanced at Dean, sensing his annoyance. "I'm okay," she answered Mr. Wyatt. "A little shook up, but you know..." She shrugged. "I just came from the police station. Everybody's down there giving their statements."

Mr. Wyatt nodded again. "Yes, I know," he replied. "A few officers were out here earlier getting statements from me and some of the other teachers along with the students who were injured." He paused. "Except for Sam, of course..." He glanced at Dean. "And you."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

"They said they would come back later," Mr. Wyatt continued. "Maybe this afternoon or evening or even tomorrow when everything's calmed down, and you and Sam are feeling more up to it."

Dean nodded his understanding of their plan but said nothing; because they – he, Sam, and their dad – had a plan of their own and would be long gone before an officer came back around to get their statements.

Amanda shifted nervously beside Dean. "How's Sam? Is he okay?"

"He's in surgery," Dean responded, glancing down the hall at the nurses' station; feeling like 15 or 20 minutes had to have passed by now.

Amanda sighed and shook her head, looking on the verge of tears. "I'm so sorry," she told Dean. "I just..." She shook her head again. "I'm sorry."

Dean stared at her; wondering why everyone felt the need to apologize when Sam was _his_ responsibility.

"He'll be fine," Mr. Wyatt soothed Amanda and then nodded encouragingly when she looked at him.

Amanda attempted a smile. "I sure hope so," she replied and then paused before her expression hardened. "Stupid Dirk. What the hell was he thinking?"

Dean snorted disgustedly at the mention of that name but didn't respond as the nurse from earlier – the one with the blond ponytail – hung up one of the phones at the nurses' station and began walking in his direction.

"Dirk made a bad choice," Mr. Wyatt agreed in that reasonable, patient tone teachers often used. "But he has a hard home life," he further explained. "I think it just finally got to him. Desperation and isolation make people do things they normally wouldn't."

"Bullshit," Dean snapped, his gaze still focused on the approaching nurse but unable to ignore the teacher's tolerant attitude and defense of the kid who had intentionally shot Sam.

Mr. Wyatt's eyes widened slightly at Dean's outburst even as Amanda nodded her agreement with Dean's words.

"Life's a bitch, and then you die," Dean informed harshly; his voice louder than it should've been in the hospital's hallway. "But you suck it up and keep going and don't open fire on innocent people."

Otherwise, if that was the way life worked – firing bullets at innocent people just because your life sucked – then Dean was well overdue for a shooting spree.

Mr. Wyatt nodded his understanding but said nothing; sensing he had caused an unintentional affront with Sam's brother and wishing he had kept his mouth shut about Dirk.

Because Dean was right.

Amanda's gaze flickered between Dean and her former teacher before her attention focused over Mr. Wyatt's shoulder as that Barry kid walked down the hall; flanked on either side by two people she assumed were his parents; because they certainly shared the resemblance.

Mr. Wyatt frowned briefly at Amanda's expression and then turned; following her gaze and smiling at who he saw. "Barry..." he called and nodded to his student's parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Cook..."

"Hi," Barry greeted as his parents shook hands with his teacher. "Dean..."

Dean glanced at Sam's friend and then back to the nurse within steps away. "Yeah..." he responded distractedly.

"How's Sam?" Barry asked, anxiously shifting from foot to foot as he stared up at his friend's brother and readjusted his thick glasses.

"I think we're about to find out," Dean replied and focused completely on the nurse as she came to join their small group in the middle of the hospital's hallway.

"Dean..." she called, politely glancing at the others and then back to Dean.

"Sam's out?" Dean asked eagerly, unsure of his reaction if there was another delay in him being able to see his brother.

The nurse nodded and smiled. "He's actually already in a room," she reported; clearly pleased to be able to share good news. "He got out of surgery a little earlier than I thought he would and did well in recovery, so they went ahead and moved him. I just got the call. And from what I hear, he's been asking for you since before he was even fully awake."

Dean quirked a smile and swallowed against the emotion that suddenly clogged his throat; the sappy emotions that only Sam could bring forth with simple shit like that...like calling for Dean before the kid was even fully conscious.

"That is so sweet," Amanda commented quietly; her eyes misty as she pressed her hand to her chest.

Dean glanced at her but said nothing; focusing back on the nurse. "Take me to him."

"Absolutely," the nurse agreed, turning from the group. "This way."

Dean nodded and stepped forward, pausing when Barry grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"Tell Sam I hope he's gonna be okay and thank him for saving my life," Barry told his friend's brother. "He pushed me to the floor when I was just standing there like a goober."

Dean felt his lips twitch in a smile at the kid's description of himself...especially since it was pretty accurate.

"If he hadn't done that, I might've gotten hit, too," Barry finished, looking traumatized by just the idea. "So...tell him thanks."

Dean nodded, a wave of pride surging through him at what Sam had done in the midst of chaos and danger; because _that_ was his boy – doing part of the family business without even thinking about it..._saving people..._even when Sam had been among the hunted in the halls of Truman High earlier that morning.

Barry blinked at Dean. "Will you tell him?"

Dean nodded again. "I sure will," he assured and smiled before he felt a light grasp on his other sleeve.

Amanda's fingers bunched the soft, worn leather as Dean turned to face her; sensing this was goodbye.

"Thank you," she told him simply; hoping he knew the meaning behind those two words...that she was thanking him for not only potentially saving her life by telling her to stay in that janitor's closet in the midst of gunfire...but for also giving her one of her best high school memories...for being the tall, good-looking badass she would undoubtedly think about for years to come.

Dean held Amanda's gaze and nodded before pulling away from her; his attention flickering to Mr. Wyatt and Barry before resting on the nurse still patiently waiting on the fringe of their small group.

The nurse smiled. "Ready?"

"Hell yes," Dean responded eagerly, stepping forward and returning the nurse's smile; feeling inexplicably happier just knowing he was headed to see Sam. "Lead the way," he told her and didn't look back at those he left behind him in the hall.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	4. Chapter 4

The nurse glanced at Dean as he walked beside her down the hospital's first floor hall; freshly appreciating his chiseled good looks – especially up close and in profile – and vaguely wondering what grade he was in at that high school across town; if he was at least 18-years old.

Not that it mattered.

The nurse quirked a smile at herself – because even if he _was_ 18, he would still be about ten years too young for her – and then winked at her coworkers as she passed by the nurses' station; knowing they were looking less at her and more at the guy in the leather jacket walking beside her.

But Dean seemed oblivious to the female attention; was instead focused straight ahead; his stride confident and determined as he approached the elevators. "What floor is Sam on?"

"The pediatric ward is on the fourth floor," the nurse told him; touched by Dean's unwavering devotion to his brother.

"Pediatric ward..." Dean repeated; pushing the upward arrow button on the wall and glancing back at the nurse warily. "It doesn't have clowns painted on the walls, does it?"

The nurse looked startled by the question and then laughed. "No. Why?" She paused, quirking a smile. "Are you afraid of clowns?" she teased.

Dean cut his eyes at her. "No."

Because in case she hadn't noticed, he wasn't afraid of _anything..._except for losing his brother.

The nurse laughed again. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Dean responded dryly, not liking this woman. "I was just wondering..." he told her, leaving out the detail of Sam being terrified of clowns; thankful he wouldn't have to deal with a freaked out little brother on top of everything else the kid had endured today.

The nurse's smile lingered as they continued to wait for the elevator. "Joking aside..." she soothed, sensing she had unintentionally annoyed Dean. "All patients under 18 are placed in the pediatric ward if there's a room available."

"Yeah, I know," Dean returned, crossing his arms over his chest; the ugly gold charm of the amulet disappearing behind worn leather sleeves.

The nurse nodded. "Most kids Sam's age hate that, though," she further explained, having often encountered that attitude with her younger patients; kids so eager to grow up, although they had no idea what that really meant; the stress and the responsibility of adulthood...and the way a lot of adults wished to be kids again.

The grass was always greener...

The elevator dinged as it arrived on the first floor; its doors opening and spilling people into the hall.

"Your brother's a tough kid," the nurse commented conversationally as she followed Dean onto the elevator; thankful it was just him and her onboard.

Dean nodded proudly and pressed the fourth floor button, making it glow orange. "Damn straight."

The nurse laughed lightly as the elevator's doors slid shut. "Guess he gets that from his big brother?" she asked, her tone once again teasing...maybe even flirting.

"Damn straight," Dean replied again; knowing the nurse was being playful but being serious in his response – because he had literally taught Sam everything the kid knew.

The nurse smiled. "Thought so," she commented; glancing at the glowing numbers above the shiny metal doors as the elevator chimed its ascent past the second floor.

Dean returned her smile and then winked at the nurse when she looked back at him.

Because while he had no interest in flirting at the moment, Dean still knew opportunity when he saw it...like now; alone with a nurse who was clearly attracted to him – he had seen her sideways glances and had heard her frisky tone – and who also happened to have information he wanted.

There was a beat of silence; the elevator chiming its passing of the third floor; the nurse twirling the end of her blond ponytail over her shoulder while Dean waited long enough for his question not to seem too obviously planned.

"What's the security like in this hospital?" Dean asked casually and then nodded at the front right corner of the elevator's interior; the corner that usually housed a hidden camera.

The nurse frowned and followed Dean's gaze; wondering why he was asking...and then realizing the answer as she remembered why he was at the hospital – because his little brother had been shot at their high school only hours ago. So, o_f course_ Dean was worried about security, and his candid concern made her heart flutter.

"Your brother is safe here," the nurse assured Dean and nodded for emphasis; overwhelmed by the need to comfort him. "I promise."

Dean resisted the urge to snort dismissively – because the morning's events had taught that his brother wasn't safe _anywhere..._except by his side – and instead refocused on the elevator's corner; appreciating the nurse's misguided attempt to soothe but preferring she just answer his question.

"So, security is pretty tight here?" Dean rephrased, hoping for useful information...and nothing more.

The elevator lurched slightly as it came to an abrupt stop; opening its doors as it chimed its arrival at the fourth floor.

"Well..." the nurse began, stepping into the hall and glancing over her shoulder as Dean followed. "I'll let you be the judge..."

Dean nodded as he walked alongside the nurse; his steps matching hers as he glanced around the hall; noticing the bright, colorful cartoon characters that decorated the walls of the pediatric ward and also the obvious presence of cameras – _lots_ of cameras – tracking his every move.

"What about the stairwells?" Dean asked, already trying to map out an escape route for him and John to whisk away their youngest...if John still insisted on leaving tonight.

The nurse nodded as she turned the corner. "Oh, yeah," she reported. "They're everywhere. Big Brother is always watching – and I mean that literally. There's a room with at least half a dozen people monitoring all of these cameras in real-time."

"Wow," Dean commented; a little unnerved by how extreme the hospital's security was...and how difficult it was going to be to slip out unnoticed.

"I know," the nurse replied, responding to Dean's tone. "It bothers me."

"Me, too," Dean agreed, although he was sure it bothered them for different reasons.

The nurse shook her head. "Anyway..." she sighed. "Don't worry about your brother. He's safe." She quirked a flirty smile. "Especially now that you're here, right?"

Dean glanced at the nurse; bored and slightly annoyed with her continued lame advances; having no interest in maintaining the pretense of flirting now that he had the information he needed about the hospital's security but knowing he needed to play along at least until blond ponytail girl showed him to Sam's room.

And then the game would begin again with whichever nurse was tending to Sam.

Because Dean would need to know instructions about his brother's recovery – and maybe sweet talk some free meds while he was at it – before John arrived, so they would be ready to leave if their dad gave the order.

"Dean..."

Dean blinked at the nurse's voice, realizing she was staring at him expectantly...and realizing he had waited entirely too long to respond to her flirty bait.

"Sorry," he apologized instead and smiled to seal the deal.

"It's okay," the nurse quickly assured; returning his smile and slowing her pace as they approached Sam's room. "You have a lot on your mind."

Dean nodded his agreement – because if only she knew... – and glanced from left to right as they continued down the hall; some rooms having their doors closed while others stood open; children of varying ages surrounded by doting parents...while Sam was somewhere in the ward all alone.

"Are we getting close?" Dean asked anxiously; suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see his brother; to be with Sam and to assure him that as long as Dean was around, the kid would never be alone.

_It's you and me against the world._

The nurse smiled softly, feeling her heart flutter once again at the candid concern of the big brother beside her.

But before she could answer, Sam's quiet, slurred voice drifted into the hall from two doors away.

"Where's D'n?"

Dean smiled – both at the familiar voice and at the question it asked – and quickened his steps. "I've got it from here," he told the nurse over his shoulder as he left her behind him in the hall. "Thanks for your help."

The nurse nodded, her blond ponytail bobbing with the motion as she stopped in the middle of the hallway and watched Dean move further away from her; feeling inexplicably sad and lonely...which was ridiculous, because she didn't even know him; was just doing her job by showing him to his brother's room.

But still...

The nurse sighed as Sam's voice once again floated into the hall.

"D'ya know where D'n is?"

The nurse smiled as she watched Dean disappear; hearing his response to his little brother as she turned and walked back toward the elevators; back to work.

"I'm right here, Sammy," Dean assured; entering his brother's room and immediately crossing to the bed; giving Sam a quick once-over; taking in the white bandage peeking out from the right shoulder of the kid's thin hospital gown along with the dark blue sling holding Sam's right arm against his side and chest. "I'm right here, kiddo."

Sam turned his head to the left, toward Dean's voice; blinking owlishly as Dean stared down at him; feeling his brother's familiar touch as Dean's cool hand gently palmed his forehead.

Sam sighed; his eyes dipping closed in instant peace and comfort.

_Dean._

The nurse on the opposite side of Sam's bed paused as she observed the interaction; holding her clipboard in the crook of her arm; her hand hovering over the chart as she was preparing to record her patient's vitals before being interrupted.

"Young man..." she began; her tone unreadable as her blue eyes swept over the intruder.

Dean's attention flickered to the nurse – a woman older than the one with the blond ponytail who had brought him to the pediatric ward – and arched an eyebrow; daring her to throw him out...or to demand something else that would end equally unpleasant for her.

But the nurse only smiled.

"Please tell me you're Dean..." she begged; looking as though she might cry if he told her otherwise.

Dean chuckled; unaccustomed to women her age requesting that of him...especially with that degree of desperation...but realizing why she wanted to know as she glanced meaningfully at Sam lying on the bed between them – because the kid had been asking for him...over and over and over.

"You are, right?" the nurse asked; her eyes widened with expectation as though she was willing him to be who she needed, who _Sam_ needed.

"The one and only," Dean smoothly responded and winked at her as he removed his leather jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair positioned by the bed; already liking this nurse – Doris, according to her name badge – better than blond ponytail girl.

Doris momentarily pressed her hand to her chest; her fingers splayed on the pink fabric of her scrubs. "Thank goodness," she replied and then resumed recording Sam's vitals from the various monitors that surrounded the kid's bed. "I probably don't have to tell you, but you're quite popular with this one," she reported; her brown hair, flecked with gray, skimming her shoulders as she turned to glance again at Sam. "In fact, I feel like I should know you from how often I've heard your name called over the past ten minutes."

Dean chuckled once more and then smiled affectionately as Sam shifted under his touch; the kid's eyes still closed as he sighed and seemed to settle more into the pillow.

"He can be a little clingy when he's sick or hurt," Dean confided; frowning as he realized Sam's bangs were sweaty as they lay limply across his knuckles.

"Understandable," Doris allowed; clicking her pen and closing Sam's chart. "Most kids are like that, trust me. I've worked in this ward for the past 20-some years, and it never fails – when kids are sick or hurt, they want their mom or dad."

Dean nodded his agreement as she paused; the nurse seeming to suddenly realize the difference with Sam – because Sam had not once asked for his mom or his dad; only for his brother...for Dean.

"Are your parents here?" Doris asked, suddenly curious about the boys' situation.

Dean shook his head. "Not yet. But our dad's on his way."

"I see," Doris answered, wondering where their mother was; if they were victims of a messy divorce or something equally heartbreaking that would keep them from her...and her from them.

Doris felt her heart twist at how horrible it would be to not be able to see her own children; especially if they had been involved in something as traumatic as a school shooting.

Was their mother even aware? Had she seen them on television and wondered how they were? Would they – or their father – at least call her later?

Doris sighed, trying not to think about it, and instead focused on the scene in front of her – Sam finally resting under the touch of the one he had so faithfully called for.

Doris smiled softly; feeling on the verge of tears at how incredibly sweet that was – a feeling that only intensified as she continued to watch Dean rub his thumb back and forth over Sam's forehead in a gesture of comfort she knew had been repeated numerous times over the years.

"You're good with him," Doris commented quietly.

Dean glanced at her, smiling his thanks.

"It's nice to finally see him settled," Doris continued, clutching her clipboard to her chest and smiling at Sam as he dozed on the bed between them; quiet and peaceful despite his slightly flushed cheeks. "I could tell he was still drowsy from the anesthesia, but he just wouldn't settle. He's been so restless ever since he arrived on the floor."

Dean nodded; not surprised – because neither he nor Sam ever rested until the other was nearby – but was more concerned about a different issue right now.

"He's warm," Dean remarked and glanced at the nurse. "How long?"

Doris shrugged. "Not long. But a low-grade fever is expected after surgery, especially given the trauma Sam's been through today."

"I know," Dean agreed but shook his head.

Doris arched an eyebrow. "What?"

Dean sighed. "Nothing. It's just that Sam's fevers can spike like that..." He crisply snapped his fingers for emphasis to indicate how quickly his little brother's temperature could rise. "So anytime the kid has a fever – "

"You worry it could become more serious," Doris finished and nodded her understanding; feeling more and more attached to these two brothers by the second; fascinated by the obvious depth of their bond and how it seemed to draw her in.

"Yeah," Dean replied and then glanced around the room; seeing a beige-colored basin on the counter by the sink and crossing to it.

Doris watched him; knowing his intention even before Dean placed the basin in the sink and turned on the faucet. "You really think he needs that?" she asked, even as she crossed to the cabinet on the far wall and removed a washcloth.

"Probably not," Dean responded honestly; briefly holding his hand under the flow of water to test its temperature. "I know Sam's probably been given an antibiotic just in case of infection..."

"He has," Doris confirmed. "Since there were no allergies listed for him, we started him on Amoxicillin, which is usually what we give kids following surgery." She paused. "So, I'm sure this is just a typical post-op fever."

"Yeah," Dean agreed distractedly. "But this..." He indicated the quickly filling basin. "...will at least make Sam feel a little better."

Doris nodded, tracking Dean's movement as he shut off the faucet and crossed back to Sam with the basin now filled with cool water. "And make _you_ feel a little better, too..." she added knowingly, rolling the bedside table from the corner and smiling as Dean set the basin on its surface.

"Maybe," Dean conceded, smiling as he took the offered washcloth from Doris.

Doris nodded again; amused by Dean's mother hen tendencies toward Sam...but also freshly touched by the big brother's devotion and tender care of his little brother.

Because it was obvious how much Dean loved Sam...and vice versa, judging by how Sam had constantly called for Dean until his older brother had finally arrived at the kid's bedside.

Doris sighed. "There's a lot to be said for comfort measures," she told Dean, watching as he dunked the white washcloth into the water and then wrung it.

Dean nodded his agreement; smoothing Sam's damp bangs out of the way as he wiped the cool fabric over the kid's overly warm forehead and held it there.

There was a beat of silence filled with the rhythmic beeps of the monitors.

"What other drugs has he been given?" Dean asked casually; already knowing they had at least a week's supply of Amoxicillin left in the first aid kit in the Impala's trunk from the last time they had "acquired" a large stash of the all-purpose antibiotic...but needing to know what else Sam had been given in case they needed to "acquire" that as well before leaving the hospital.

"Sam was given a mild sedative," Doris answered continuing to watch Dean tend to his brother. "But that's pretty standard procedure in this ward to help kids rest after surgery...as well as an anti-nausea medication that we give, so kids hopefully won't throw up from the anesthesia...which could cause damage to their stitches and just generally make them more distressed. And then pain meds, of course, but nothing narcotic. Hospital administration frowns upon giving kids narcotics."

Doris rolled her eyes to indicate her opinion of that unofficial policy.

"So, we usually just give our pediatric patients prescription strength Motrin or Advil until it becomes clear that they need something more powerful," she continued. "But so far, it seems Sam is doing fine. So, I wouldn't be surprised if he's discharged with only a prescription for the course of antibiotics and just takes over-the-counter pain relievers as needed."

Dean nodded, a wave of relief washing over him; thankful that there seemed to be one less detail to worry about; knowing they already had all the medications Sam would need in the Impala's trunk – the Amoxicillin and the usual pain relievers.

"When do you think he'll be discharged?" Dean asked, returning the washcloth to the basin.

Doris shrugged. "Well, that decision is up to the doctor, of course, but I would expect that if Sam continues to do well and has no major setbacks overnight, he'll be able to go home tomorrow."

"Will we get instructions then on how to take care of the incision?" Dean probed, already knowing the basics of wound care but wanting to double-check; never taking chances when it involved Sam.

Doris nodded, watching as Dean wrung excess water from the washcloth and returned it to Sam's forehead. "Yes, whichever nurse discharges Sam will go over those instructions."

"Not you?"

Doris smiled and shook her head. "No. Nothing personal, but I hope I'm long gone by then. My shift is over in about an hour, and I'm not scheduled to come back on until the day after tomorrow."

Dean nodded, mentally recording that information – that shifts changed in an hour...which would be the perfect time to leave if John had arrived by then.

"Is the next nurse as good as you?" Dean asked and quirked a flirty smile; needing to know the other nurse's competency both for Sam's care and to gauge how easy she would be to dodge when it came time to discharge themselves.

Doris laughed, realizing he was purposefully flattering her...but enjoying it anyway. "Well, she does her best. But she's young and just out of nursing school, so she's still trying to learn the ropes."

Dean said nothing; silently pleased with the information as he repeated the process of dunking the washcloth in the basin, wringing it, and placing it back on Sam's forehead.

"But she's a good nurse and will take good care of Sam," Doris assured. "She's just a little...I don't know...flaky sometimes."

Dean cut his eyes at Doris and arched an eyebrow. "Nice."

Doris laughed. "You know what I mean..." she lightly admonished, pausing as she adjusted the clipboard and chart in her grasp. "Anyway...I'll be right back," she said as she crossed to the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Dean's smile lingered as he listened to the nurse's footsteps fade until all he could hear was the rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor and oximeter still attached to Sam; thankful to be alone with his brother and to finally be able to look over the kid like he wanted without an audience.

Dean swept the washcloth down Sam's temple and around the back of his brother's neck; holding it there before moving it forward again and cupping the kid's jaw.

Sam shifted as the cool fabric touched his flushed cheek; leaning into Dean's grasp and sighing.

Dean smiled. "Sammy..."

Sam shifted again but did not open his eyes.

Dean swiped the washcloth down Sam's neck, under his chin, and over to the other side of the kid's face; cupping that cheek as he had the other. "Sammy..."

Sam sleepily hummed his response; a breathy sound of acknowledgement without words.

Dean chuckled; reminded of what a lightweight his little brother was when it came to drugs...especially the combination of lingering anesthesia and prescription-strength pain medicine.

"Sam..." Dean called, rubbing his washcloth-covered thumb over the kid's cheek. "Talk to me. Are you okay?"

Because that was all that mattered; was the only thing Dean needed reassurance about before he could leave his brother alone...at least for now.

Sam opened his eyes to thin slits; staring at Dean through his lashes.

"Sammy..." Dean called again. "You okay?"

Sam sighed. "Mmhmm."

Dean nodded. "Good. Any pain?"

"M'good," Sam whispered; his voice sounding scratchy.

"Good," Dean praised again and then paused; dreading the answer to his next question. "You don't feel sick, do you? No puking, right?"

Because even though Doris had listed an anti-nausea medication among those that had been given to Sam, Dean wasn't taking any chances; didn't want any unpleasant surprises.

Because while Doris might know her patients, Dean knew his brother – and Sam was famous for throwing up after anesthesia.

Sam scrunched his face weakly. "No," he answered and then swallowed. "Not right now."

Dean nodded...even though he liked Sam's first answer better than his amended one; because "not right now" meant there was the potential for things to change later.

"D'n..."

Dean arched an eyebrow expectantly as he stood by the bed. "Yeah, Sammy..."

Sam paused; his eyes barely open as he stared intently at his brother. "You?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "What about me?"

Sam blinked. "Okay?"

Dean smiled, wondering what he ever did to deserve this kid. "Yeah, kiddo," he assured, affectionately tousling Sam's hair. "If you're fine, I'm fine."

Sam held Dean's gaze. "'Kay, good..." he replied; his eyes dipping closed again as his mouth twitched in what was probably meant to be a smile but looked more like an involuntary facial spasm.

Dean chuckled and shook his head – marveling at how it was possible to love one scrawny, floppy-haired kid so damn much – and then turned to the bedside table; dropping the washcloth into the basin before crossing to the opposite side of the bed.

Dean paused at the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall; waiting until another nurse passed by the open door before repositioning the IV pole further back from the bed and then carefully pulling down the thin hospital gown that covered Sam's bony right shoulder.

"Alright, Sammy..." Dean commented conversationally, paying extra attention not to tangle the IV line that stretched from the pole behind him to his brother's small hand resting on the kid's chest. "Let's see what we've got here, huh?"

As expected, Sam did not respond as Dean slowly peeled back the surgical tape that held the white bandage in place over the kid's wound and eased the layers of gauze away; exposing a straight, neat row of dark stiches puckering Sam's red, irritated skin.

Dean narrowed his eyes; his fingers gently palpating the area of his brother's skin stained by remnants of orangey-yellow surgical antiseptic and dried blood. "Looks good," he reported to the empty room; relief evident in his tone as he finished his inspection of the surgeon's work.

"I'll be sure to tell Dr. Peters that you think so," Doris teasingly assured as she came around the corner carrying a plastic cup with a straw in one hand and a small pitcher of water in the other.

Dean glanced at the nurse as she stood in the doorway. "You do that," he returned – only half joking – and refocused on his brother's shoulder; carefully securing the bandage back in place.

Doris smiled. "It really does look good," she agreed, referring to her patient's wound as she crossed to the bed. "Since Sam is young and in good health, I doubt he'll have any trouble healing. But once he's discharged, just monitor the incision for infection, keep it clean, change the dressing daily, and then make sure the stitches properly dissolve...and that he finishes the entire course of antibiotics."

Dean nodded – because it was all standard wound care procedure – and then turned his attention to Sam's broken collarbone.

"That will heal on its own," Doris explained, following Dean's gaze. "There will probably be a small bump where the bone will scar once it's knitted together, but it should be fine."

Dean arched an eyebrow at their unexpected stroke of continuing good luck. "Really?"

Doris nodded. "Really," she affirmed, setting the cup and pitcher on the rolling table by the bed. "Dr. Peters said Sam's collarbone was only fractured, thank goodness – not shattered or anything catastrophic like that; so, there were no screws or pins that needed to be inserted. Sam just needs to keep his right arm and shoulder immobilized for the next three to six weeks, take his pain meds, maybe ice it to help control swelling...but otherwise it should heal as good as new."

Dean nodded thoughtfully; his eyes sweeping over his brother's obviously crooked, slightly bulging collarbone. "Three to six weeks. That sounds fun," he replied dryly; already not looking forward to Sam's complaints about wearing the sling for so long.

Doris smiled sympathetically. "I know," she agreed. "But it could've been much worse."

Dean nodded again; well aware of just how bad it could've been.

"In fact..." Doris began and waited for Dean to look at her. "Dr. Peters said that Sam is incredibly lucky to have turned the way he did before he got shot...that if he hadn't done so, the bullet would've entered lower in his chest...and we probably would be having a very different conversation right now."

Dean held the nurse's gaze, swallowing at the implication of her words.

Doris nodded, confirming Dean's suspicions; that Sam would've been gravely injured...if not killed...had the kid not turned slightly back and away as he had done earlier that morning in the hall at Truman High as Dirk had fired his gun.

"Sam is very, _very_ fortunate to have turned the _way_ he did, _when_ he did," Doris emphasized and glanced at her young patient; blinking in surprise when Sam stared back at her. "Sam..."

Dean's attention snapped to his brother. "Sammy..."

"D'n called m'name," Sam reported sleepily; his eyes barely open as he unexpectedly attempted to participate in an ongoing conversation.

Dean shook his head; readjusting the hospital gown back over Sam's bandaged shoulder. "No, I didn't, Sammy," he soothed; hating it when his brother was so out of it; a combination of trauma, lingering anesthesia, and the mild sedative Doris had mentioned. "Go back to sleep, kiddo. Everything's okay."

"No," Sam responded and scrunched his face in drowsy annoyance; obviously irritated by his scattered thoughts preventing him from talking like he wanted. "Not now. At school. You called m'name...so I turned."

Doris's attention flickered between the brothers, realizing what Sam was trying to say – that by calling Sam's name, Dean had caused his brother to turn and thus had saved the kid's life.

"Guess that makes you a hero," Doris told Dean and smiled warmly from across the bed.

Dean scowled in response; uncomfortable with that description. "Hardly," he corrected the nurse; wondering if she would feel the same if she knew where he had been while Sam had faced down a gunman by himself.

"You are to me," Sam whispered; holding Dean's gaze as long as he could before his eyes dipped closed again.

Dean swallowed against the emotion that surged through him with those four slurred words. "Ah, Sammy..." he sighed, affectionately brushing aside the kid's bangs as Sam lightly dozed.

"That's two against one," Doris declared, referring to her and Sam's vote for Dean's hero status. "Majority rules."

Dean snorted but said nothing; appreciating the nurse's attempt to lighten the moment but having too much on his mind – too much he needed to say to Sam – to respond to her.

Doris smiled, seeming to understand and to recognize her cue to leave the brothers to their privacy.

"Well..." she sighed, her eyes scanning the monitors before focusing back on Dean. "Since Sam's in good hands, I guess I'll go check on my other patients. Be sure he drinks some of that when he wakes up again," she instructed, indicating the pitcher of water. "His throat is probably dry and sore from having been intubated during surgery."

Dean nodded; having heard how scratchy Sam's voice had sounded the few times his brother had spoken.

"And just remember...since his Foley has already been removed, Sam will need go into the bathroom if he has to potty later."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Potty?"

Doris glared playfully. "Shut up. I work in a pediatric ward, so I can use kid terms if I want to."

Dean chuckled.

"Anyway...if you need help getting him up, just call for me."

Dean shook his head; because that would not be necessary. He had been taking care of Sam by himself since the kid was six-months old.

There was a beat of silence filled with the beeping monitors and the rustle of sheets as Sam shifted restlessly on the bed.

Dean rubbed his brother's chest soothingly; settling the kid without ever taking his eyes off the nurse.

Doris smiled, marveling again at how close these two brothers were; a connection so deep that words were not required between them...only a touch, a look.

Doris sighed. "I'll be out in the hall if you need me," she reminded Dean quietly and crossed to the door, pausing as the thought struck her. "What does your dad look like?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at the unexpected question. "Why?"

"I like to be able to identify my patients' parents, so I can help them find their children on the floor once they arrive."

Dean nodded his understanding but chuckled. "Don't worry," he assured her. "He'll find us."

Doris quirked a smile, intrigued; realizing she was suddenly eager to meet their father and hoping he arrived before her shift was over.

"I'll check back later then," she told Dean and exited the room; closing the door behind her.

Dean nodded; watching her leave and then glancing at Sam when his brother shifted again on the bed. "Sammy..."

Sam sighed and shifted once more; his legs moving uncoordinatedly under the blankets.

Dean narrowed his eyes; recognizing the signs of an increasingly agitated little brother. "Sam..." he called, crossing back to the left side of the bed.

Sam's eyes fluttered open at the sound of Dean's movement. "D'n..."

Dean winced at Sam's hoarse voice. "Yeah, Sammy..." he answered, pouring water in the cup Doris had brought earlier and bringing it over to his brother; guiding the straw between Sam's dry lips.

Sam drank eagerly, audibly swallowing several sips before Dean pulled the straw away.

"Easy," Dean advised, listening to his brother cough and watching for signs of the water making an unexpected reappearance.

"M'okay," Sam assured and blinked lazily at Dean.

"Good," Dean praised, setting the cup back on the bedside table. "Let's keep it that way, huh?"

Sam nodded once, continuing to stare at Dean.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"Is everybody else okay?"

"The other kids?"

Sam nodded again.

"Yeah," Dean answered, gently smoothing the sling's twisted strap over his brother's small, narrow chest. "They're fine. Everybody's fine. All the other kids who were shot and your teacher and Amanda and that Barry kid...they're all fine. They're just worried about you."

Sam swallowed. "M'okay."

Dean smiled and nodded; proud of his little brother; of this tough, sweet kid he had raised.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes.

"That Barry kid said you saved his life, Sammy," Dean told his brother; feeling another swell of pride. "Said to thank you because if you hadn't pushed him down, he might've gotten hit, too."

Sam opened his eyes, wincing as he tried to shrug. "Just doin' what you would've done."

Dean nodded; his throat unexpectedly tight with emotion at Sam's comment.

Sam smiled weakly and then winced again as his shoulder and arm freshly throbbed; shifting restlessly on the bed and scrunching his face in pain and discomfort.

Dean frowned. "What's wrong?"

"M'tired," Sam replied; his quiet, slurred voice proving the point. "An' I don't feel good."

"I know," Dean assured, brushing the fringe of bangs from Sam's eyes. "You've had kind of a sucky day."

Sam twitched a smile. "Kinda," he agreed and shifted again beneath the blankets; feebly pushing at them with his left hand.

"Dude..." Dean lightly reprimanded, untangling Sam's fingers from the sheet's edge and instead pulling the cover higher over his brother. "Stop moving before you hurt yourself. Just relax and go back to sleep."

Sam didn't respond; continuing instead to struggle with the blankets as he attempted to find a comfortable position on the mattress.

"Sam. Stop," Dean ordered more forcibly and reached for his brother; the kid's small left hand disappearing in Dean's larger grasp. "Settle down and go back to sleep."

"I can't," Sam whined; his tone dangerously close to tears as he became increasingly overwrought. "M'shoulder hurts...an' m'arm won't move...an' I can't get comfortable an' I just...just..."

"Hey..." Dean called, trying to distract Sam from continuing to work himself up. "You gotta chill out. You hear me? You're okay. Just calm down, princess..." he soothed, glancing at the monitors as they increased their tempo; not needing medical equipment to help him recognize the signs of a little brother meltdown triggered by the combination of injury, fatigue, medication, and trauma.

Sam blinked, tears threatening to fall. "Dean..."

"You're okay," Dean assured again and lowered the bedrail before easing himself onto the mattress beside Sam and reaching for his brother; carefully lifting and repositioning the kid to rest more on his left side while he leaned against Dean.

There was a beat of silence; the monitors slowly returning to normal as Dean rubbed his brother's back.

Sam sighed shakily.

Dean glanced down at the kid tucked under his arm. "Better?"

Sam sniffled and nodded. "Better," he whispered; his head resting on Dean's chest, only inches from the amulet.

Although Sam didn't understand _why_ it was better because he still hurt – his shoulder vaguely throbbing; and he was still slightly uncomfortable – as his right arm was still held in place by the sling.

But being beside Dean just somehow made it better.

It always did.

Dean smiled affectionately, knowing his brother's thoughts and biting back a comment about how Sam was such a girl; because right now, Sam was just being a sick kid who needed comfort.

"Is Dad coming?" Sam asked sleepily.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, slightly shifting under Sam's weight. "I called him while you were in surgery, so he should be here soon."

"Was he mad?"

Dean sighed; saddened that Sam always asked that question about John.

"Was he?" Sam asked again; seeming as though he suspected John was, given Dean's hesitation in responding.

"No," Dean replied and shook his head for emphasis; his chin skimming the top of Sam's hair. "He wasn't mad, Sammy. Just worried."

"Being worried makes him mad," Sam wisely informed and rubbed his face against Dean's chest.

Dean chuckled at his brother's logic. "Sometimes," he agreed.

There was silence; the beeps of the monitors mingling with muffled voices of people in the hall.

"Are we leaving?"

Dean nodded, knowing Sam felt the motion as his chin once again skimmed the kid's hair.

"When?"

Dean shrugged. "Whenever Dad gets here, probably." He paused. "Unless you want to stay." He paused again. "I'm serious, Sammy. If you feel like you need to stay here overnight, then that's what we'll do. Dad can just get the hell over it."

"S'okay," Sam replied, relaxing more against Dean. "We can go."

Dean glanced down at his brother; feeling Sam begin to drift off to sleep. "Hey..."

"Hmm..."

"Don't go to sleep yet. I need to tell you something."

"M'listening," Sam responded; his words mumbled by fatigue and from how bonelessly he was laying against Dean.

Dean slowly exhaled; having waited all day to say this to his brother and now not knowing where to start; a simple apology seeming embarrassingly inadequate in the wake of what had happened.

"M'listening..." Sam repeated; his tone indicating that he probably would not be listening for much longer; sleep only minutes away.

Dean smiled and then sighed. "Sammy. I'm sorry."

There was a pause.

"For what?" Sam asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Dean laughed; a hollow, humorless sound. "Seriously?"

"You didn't do anything, Dean," Sam defended; dulled sharpness in his voice.

"Exactly," Dean agreed dryly. "I didn't do anything. You were saving people and getting shot in the process, and I was hooking up with some girl in the fucking janitor's closet!"

"S'okay, Dean," Sam soothed, shifting on the bed so he could glance up at his brother. "Not your fault. You didn't know what was gonna happen this morning."

"That's not an excuse, Sam," Dean snapped. "I should've been there with you. When shit hits the fan, I should be there. You shouldn't have to look for me."

Sam remained quiet; remembering how he had indeed looked for his brother when gunfire had erupted in the school's hall; how he had desperately wanted Dean in those moments before he had gotten shot; and how relieved he had felt when he had finally seen his brother, had heard Dean's voice calling his name.

"You still saved my life," Sam reminded his hero and smiled weakly. "That's all that matters, Dean."

Dean shook his head; knowing Sam was always quick to forgive but not wanting to be so easily absolved; not feeling he deserved it this time.

Sam sighed and shifted; wincing as the movement jarred his arm and shoulder.

Dean glanced down at his brother as the kid continued to rest against his chest. "Sammy..."

"M'okay," Sam replied and then swallowed before sighing again. "Anyway...if what happened today was anybody's fault, it was mine."

Dean frowned. "What? Why would you say that?"

"'Cause of what happened yesterday after school."

"Bullshit, Sam," Dean responded, his tone clipped. "You only kicked Dirk's ass because you were finally defending yourself against a bully. That's not a reason for him to go fucking crazy and open fire at school."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam agreed but then shook his head; his cheek rubbing against Dean's shirt. "I still shouldn't have called him what I did, though."

Dean snorted. "Still not an excuse, Sam. Kids get called worse things than 'Dirk the Jerk', but they're not out shooting other kids because of it."

"Yeah, I know. But I think his home life was hard and – "

"So is ours..." Dean interrupted.

"Yeah." Sam paused. "But we have each other."

Dean didn't respond; wondering how Sam could always say such simple things that stabbed him in the heart with their truth and love.

"Dean..."

"I heard you," Dean replied warmly and then shook his head. "But it's still not an excuse for what Dirk did. And it's still not your fault, Sammy."

"Not yours, either," Sam returned to Dean and glanced again at his brother.

Dean sighed; his lips twitching in a smile as he realized neither of them was going to win this argument in trying to convince each other of where the blame did and did not lie.

"I guess we'll have to agree to disagree," Dean advised reasonably. "Even though it's _not _your fault, Sam."

"Not _yours_, either," Sam repeated stubbornly.

Dean chuckled. "Fine." He paused. "Maybe we should blame Dad for leaving us here."

Sam laughed drowsily and snuggled closer to Dean. "Maybe."

Dean glanced down at his brother, patiently allowing the kid to wallow against him.

Sam yawned. "I guess sometimes things just happen."

Dean said nothing; understanding that logic – because he had lived it enough times to know it was true – but hating it all the same...especially when things "just happened" to Sam.

"D'n..."

"Yeah, Sammy..."

But Sam's only response was a sigh; his breaths evening out in sleep as his body fully relaxed against Dean – trusting, content, _safe_.

Dean smiled affectionately; shifting on the mattress as he carefully readjusted his protective hold on his brother and rubbed the kid's back; closing his own eyes while he waited for John to arrive.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC – <strong>__**I originally thought this was going to be the last chapter, but it looks like we have one more to go.**_


	5. Chapter 5

Doris sighed; readjusting her purse strap over her shoulder and pulling her dark blue coat tighter around her body as she waited for the elevator to arrive.

"Have a good evening, Doris," one of the other nurses called to her from behind the counter of the nurses' station.

Doris nodded and waved politely at her coworker before glancing back at the elevators as one dinged its arrival to the pediatric ward.

"Finally..." Doris commented and then smiled pleasantly at the tall, dark-haired man exiting the elevator; startled by how ruggedly good-looking he was and how much he favored Sam's brother...or rather, more accurately...how much Sam's brother favored this man.

Which most likely meant...

"Are you Sam's dad?" Doris asked before she could stop herself as the man passed by her and then wished she had kept her mouth shut when he turned to look at her.

The man said nothing as he stood in the middle of the hall with a duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder; only gave her a cursory once-over and then stared at her expectantly; silently demanding that she elaborate.

"I'm Sam's nurse," Doris quickly informed; awkwardly straddling the elevator's threshold; bracing her arm against its sliding door to hold it open while smiling at the man to further indicate that she was a friend.

He did not smile back; only narrowed his eyes in further scrutiny.

"I was just wondering..." Doris commented conversationally, uncertain why she felt the need to keep talking; especially when this man did not appear friendly and did not seem open to conversations with strangers. "I just couldn't help but notice how much Sam's brother, Dean, looks just like you. Without the beard, of course..."

Doris laughed self-consciously; inexplicably feeling like Baby in _Dirty Dancing_, saying something incredibly stupid and obvious in the face of a hot man.

_I carried a watermelon. _

Doris inwardly cringed, resisting the urge to duck into the waiting elevator; wishing she had just gone home like usual without attempting to converse with a stranger who may or may not be the father of one of her young patients.

The man continued to stare at her; his gaze unblinking as he seemed to read her; silently evaluating her motives for talking to him; gauging whether she deserved his trust and thus a response.

Doris shifted uncomfortably beneath his steady gaze; her arm beginning to cramp from holding back the elevator's door as she continued to straddle its threshold; one foot in the hall, the other in the elevator.

"So..." Doris sighed and attempted another smile; hoping it didn't look like a grimace from the pain in her arm...and from the painful awkwardness of this conversation. "Are you Sam's dad?" she asked again, feeling herself becoming annoyed by the man's stony silence.

But to her surprise, his lips twitched in a brief smile at her repeated question.

"Yes," the man confirmed; finally giving her a response but not offering any other details.

Doris's smile widened – pleased that she seemed to be making progress with engaging this man...and because she _knew_ she was right. Dean just favored him too much for this man not to be the boys' father; which meant Sam must look more like their mom, wherever she was...

Doris felt her heart twist – the thought of their mother not being there for them once again upsetting her – but then flinched as the elevator began to buzz its shrill displeasure at being held open for so long.

Doris scowled her annoyance and stepped back into the hall, allowing the elevator to shut behind her.

There was a beat of silence as the elevator dinged its approval; the glowing red numbers on the wall tracking its descent.

Doris sighed and redirected her attention to the man still standing in the middle of hall, watching her. "It's nice to meet you," she told him; her tone polite and genuine. "My name's Doris."

"John," the man returned and stepped forward.

Doris blinked – surprised to see an extended hand within inches of her – and then smiled, grasping John's hand; feeling the calloused warmth of a good man living a hard life.

"You said you're Sam's nurse?" John asked, releasing Doris's hand and shifting the duffel bag still resting over his shoulder.

"Yes," Doris replied and then paused; shrugging her apology. "Well..._was_ his nurse. Shifts just changed, so I'm heading home."

John nodded. "But Sam's okay?"

"Yes," Doris assured, nodding for emphasis; strangely comforted by John's deep voice and touched by the concern that creased his forehead. "He's doing just fine and is resting comfortably. At least he was when I checked on him about half an hour ago..."

John smiled and nodded again. "Dean's with him."

"Yes," Doris confirmed; although she knew John wasn't asking her if Dean was with Sam because John already seemed to know the whereabouts of both his children.

As if to prove her point, John glanced over his shoulder; his gaze directed down the hall toward Sam's room.

Doris smiled, unable to stop herself; remembering Dean's earlier assurance that John would find him and Sam once John arrived; implying that their dad would just somehow _know_.

And apparently, he did.

Doris sighed, fascinated and touched that there seemed to be a similar bond between father and sons as between big brother and little brother; each having a sense for the other.

"Dean is so good with Sam," Doris told John, as if he had asked her; as if he didn't already know. "He's such an awesome big brother, so patient and takes such good care of Sam. And Sam..." She paused, pressing her hand to her chest at the thought of her young patient. "He's such an adorable sweetheart and yet he's a tough kid, too. I can tell. He's been so brave through all of this."

John glanced back at Doris; quirking an amused smile as she gushed about his kids.

"You must be so proud of them," Doris continued, beaming. "Sam saving those other kids at the school...and then Dean taking care of his little brother until the paramedics arrived...and then riding all the way here with him in the ambulance, refusing to let Sam out of his sight."

Doris felt her eyes becoming misty as she recounted all the details that had floated up to the pediatric ward from the ER over the past hour; the hospital grapevine of medics telling nurses...nurses telling other nurses...and other nurses bringing the news to Doris.

"So proud..." Doris commented again and then laughed lightly. "Heck, I'm proud of them...and I barely even know them!"

John chuckled at the nurse's enthusiasm; quiet love and pride shining in his eyes as she praised his children. "My life certainly would not be the same without my boys," he agreed, his tone genuine but sad. "They're two of the best things I have left."

Doris nodded although she wondered what he meant; what he was thinking about; why he looked so lonesome and tired.

There was a beat of silence as a phone rang at the nearby nurses' station.

John sighed, seeming to instantly refocus. "Sam's room is down the hall on the left?"

Doris nodded; uncertain how he already knew that information even as she remembered how John had glanced over his shoulder a few minutes earlier. "Yes. Down the hall on the left," she replied and then pointed as if John needed further direction.

John nodded. "Thought so. Thanks."

"My pleasure," Doris returned, feeling an inexplicable twinge of disappointment as she realized John was ending their conversation. "I hope Sam feels better soon..." she quickly added. "Hope he makes a full recovery."

"He'll be fine. We'll take care of him," John assured her, smiling at the nurse before turning and walking away.

Doris nodded – having no doubts that Sam would indeed be well cared for after he left the hospital – and once again stepped closer to the elevators; pushing the downward arrow button on the wall as she watched John walk down the hall, his strides long and confident.

Several seconds later, the arriving elevator dinged as it opened its doors, and Doris glanced once more down the hall; waiting until John paused outside of Sam's room before reluctantly boarding the elevator and allowing its doors to shut behind her.

* * *

><p>John peered through the thin window on the door to Sam's room; not surprised to see Dean lying alongside Sam on the mattress; his arm protectively wrapped around his little brother; both boys asleep.<p>

John sighed, feeling strangely nostalgic; remembering all the times over the years he had witnessed a similar scene of comfort and peace – in Sammy's crib, in countless motel beds, in the backseat of the Impala; his boys holding on to their one constant...each other.

John smiled warmly – allowing himself to linger in the moment – and then glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Well, hi there..." a young nurse greeted, smiling up at John. "Are you Sam's dad?"

John sighed, hating all of this attention, and was freshly reminded of why he avoided hospitals and strangers; of how much he hated questions and assumptions, with everyone seeming to know the name of his youngest and acting like they actually knew the kid...and by extension, knew Dean and John as well.

"I'm guessing you are," the nurse in pink scrubs continued, answering her own question about John being Sam's dad; her cheery, overly-familiar tone just as annoying as her wide blue eyes, blindingly bright smile, and the two blond pigtails bouncing on either side of her head. "My name's Poppy, and I'll be Sam's nurse for the rest of the evening."

John stared at her, saying nothing; his gaze flickering from one side of her head to the other and wondering if this was some kind of joke.

Poppy's smile widened; unfazed by John's silence or his focus on her hair. "Don't you just love pigtails?" she asked him, twirling one around her finger; the bright pink ribbon she had tied around it intertwining with her blond locks. "Although I'm not really sure why they're called 'pigtails' since real pigs have curly tails...which always reminds me of curly fries...but the kids sure do seem to like 'em!" she reported, continuing to play with her hair. "Makes them smile and laugh all the time!"

John arched an eyebrow. "I bet," he agreed dryly – his confidence in this nurse and her abilities decreasing by the second – and then glanced at the chart she held; hoping she did not expect to come into Sam's room...because that won't happening.

Poppy followed his gaze. "I was just coming to check on Sam," she confirmed, her tone and expression suddenly hesitant as if she suspected resistance. "Doris said he was fine before she left, but I'd still like to check for myself. Plus, it'll give me an opportunity to meet our little hero...along with that brother of his that I keep hearing about."

John scowled, feeling his protective tendency flare as it always did when faced with people's fascinated interest in his boys; because they were _his_ – the only things Mary had left him – and the rest of the world could fuck off.

Poppy widened her eyes slightly at John's hard expression. "What's wrong?" she asked; her high-pitched, sing-song tone implying she was used to asking children that question, not adults.

"Nothing," John replied smoothly, even as he felt his level of annoyance continue to rise as he stared at the nurse.

Poppy looked doubtful. "Sam's okay, isn't he?" she pressed, tilting her head as though to see around John and through the window of her patient's door.

"He's fine," John assured her, angling his body to block Sam's door and her view of his boys; the duffel slung over his shoulder pressed against the doorjamb. "He's sleeping right now."

Poppy smiled softly. "That is so sweet," she commented but did not seem deterred. "Well, I won't bother him. I just want to check on him."

John shook his head, thinking someone should get this woman a clue for Christmas.

"He's fine," John repeated; his tone sharper, his gaze unblinking; silently ordering the nurse to let the issue drop, because she was not entering Sam's room.

John was not subjecting his youngest to this woman's care – she was entirely too flaky for his liking – and they did not need her around while he and Dean prepared the kid to leave.

Poppy frowned; the expression combined with her pigtails making her look like a pouty five-year old. "But – "

"Have a good evening," John told her, effectively shutting down whatever response the nurse was about to offer as he continued to block Sam's door.

Poppy shifted uneasily. "Well, um..." She cleared her throat; her fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of her patient's chart. "If you're sure Sam's okay, I guess I'll just check on him later."

John blinked at her; his expression neutral.

Poppy smiled tightly, confused as to why John seemed irritated instead of charmed by her quirks; distrustful instead of instantly at ease like most of her patients' parents.

"Well..." Poppy sighed, trying not to take the obvious rejection personally. "If you need anything...or if Sam needs anything...just give me a holler."

John nodded – even though that wasn't going to happen – and watched as the nurse walked past him; her blond, pink-ribboned pigtails bobbing as she disappeared down the hall.

John sighed and rolled his eyes before glancing over his shoulder; first left, then right...noticing the abundance of security cameras that lined the now relatively empty hall...locating the nearest stairwell...and hoping his plan was going to work.

John sighed again and pushed through the door to Sam's room; immediately attracting Dean's attention.

Dean's eyes instantly opened; reflexively tightening his hold around his brother as Sam continued to lean against him while the kid slept.

"Son, visitors aren't allowed on patients' beds," John rudely informed, closing the door behind him and then winking at his oldest.

Dean snorted. "Bite me, old man," he responded dryly and smiled at his dad as John crossed to the right side of the bed.

John chuckled, removing the duffel bag from his shoulder and setting it in a nearby chair before focusing on his youngest; carefully brushing Sam's bangs from his eyes to better see his child. "How is he?"

"Good," Dean replied, watching as John held his hand against Sam's forehead and gave the kid a customary once-over; knowing their dad would want a full report on Sam's condition.

"He feels a little warm."

Dean nodded. "Just a post-op fever. He's okay."

"Good," John replied, removing his hand from beneath Sam's bangs; his gaze sweeping over the various monitors that surrounded the bed before returning to Dean. "Anybody give you any shit about anything?"

Dean shook his head. "Not yet. I guess being the victim of a school shooting brings more sympathy, less suspicion."

John nodded at that logic but felt his stomach clench at the phrase "victim of a school shooting" being used to describe his youngest; because both of his boys were hunters, fighters...not helpless victims. "Do we know how all of this happened?"

Dean shrugged, feeling Sam's head lift with the motion as his brother continued to rest against him; having decided over the past hour while he had dozed and had waited for John to arrive that he was not going to tell their dad any of the details about the events surrounding the shooting.

Because John didn't need to know about Sam's fight with Dirk after school yesterday...or what the kid had called the bully afterwards...or about he himself being in the janitor's closet with Amanda when Dirk had started firing earlier that morning.

Those details would only lead to more questions and blame and guilt...and Dean didn't need that. More importantly, _Sam _didn't need that – and Dean wasn't going to allow John to upset Sam about it.

What was done was done, and John ranting about it wasn't going to change things.

"Dean..." John prompted.

Dean blinked. "Sorry," he apologized, for more than just his hesitation.

John arched a suspicious eyebrow and waited for his oldest to answer his question.

"Not much to tell," Dean dodged; always equally fascinated and unnerved by how easy lying came to him...even lying to his own father when Sam's well-being was at stake. "Like I said earlier...just some crazy, punk-ass kid decided today was the day to go postal."

John narrowed his eyes, sensing there was more to the story...and realizing from Dean's expression that he was probably never going to know it. "That's it?" he asked anyway.

"Pretty much," Dean further lied. "Shit happens, you know? Especially to Sammy." He paused, glancing down at his brother. "The kid seems to attract the crazies."

John huffed a laugh. "Guess so," he agreed, knowing his oldest was deflecting and strangely proud of how seamlessly Dean did so...even with him.

Dean rubbed Sam's back as the kid shifted against him and held John's gaze; having had years of experience with maintaining a neutral expression in the face of suspicion.

John sighed, a strange sense of irony washing over him; that he often kept details from his sons for their own good...and now it seemed his sons were doing the same to him.

_And 'round and 'round we go..._

John sighed again, deciding to let the issue drop for now. "What happened to the punk-ass kid?"

Dean felt a fresh burn of anger at the mention of Dirk. "Last I heard, the cops have him."

"And?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't know. Guess he's waiting for his hearing, or whatever."

John nodded, sharing Dean's anger; wishing it hadn't been a human kid who had harmed their youngest because finding justice for what had happened would have been a lot quicker and more personally satisfying.

But...the little fucker _was_ a human kid, which meant their hands were proverbially tied.

Dean stared at John, knowing his father's thoughts. "Sucks, huh?"

John laughed humorlessly. "That's one way of putting it."

Dean nodded and glanced at Sam as the kid sighed in his sleep; knowing his forgiving, kind-hearted little brother would want them to let the issue drop; to not harbor any revengeful grudges against Dirk or for what had happened.

Dean felt his chest tighten as he continued to stare at Sam; realizing – not for the first time – how his kid brother made him and John better people.

John sighed. "Have the cops been around?"

Dean shook his head. "I heard they were here earlier. But Sam was in surgery, and I didn't see them," he reported, glancing at John as their dad continued to stand on the opposite side of the bed. "They haven't been back yet, but I'm sure they will be later."

"I'm sure they will," John agreed dryly. "Not that it will matter, since we'll be gone."

Dean nodded his understanding of John's implication – that they were indeed leaving the hospital tonight – and shifted beneath his brother's weight; the kid's bony left shoulder digging into his ribs.

John's attention flickered to Sam, narrowing his eyes. "He _is_ okay to leave, right?" he asked; his concern genuine even if the question was an afterthought.

"He should be," Dean responded, glancing at his brother as the kid continued to sleep. "I asked him earlier when he was awake if he wanted to go or stay...and he said he wanted to go, so..."

"Good," John praised and nodded his further approval. "That's our boy."

"Yeah," Dean agreed half-heartedly; still uneasy about asking a kid who had been shot that morning to hit the road that night. "He's a tough kid."

John smiled warmly. "So I keep hearing. A tough kid _and_ a hero..."

Dean nodded; a surge of pride filling his chest. "He is, Dad. He saved several kids this morning."

John's smile widened. "That's our boy," he repeated, his gaze resting softly on Sam. "And apparently our boy's becoming a ladies' man, too..."

Dean arched a questioning eyebrow.

"Sam's nurses," John explained simply and shook his head as he remembered how they had gushed about his youngest...and his oldest, for that matter.

Dean nodded knowingly. "So, you met Doris before she left..."

John returned the nod. "And Poppy as she arrived..."

Dean frowned. "Who?"

"The nurse who replaced Doris for the night."

Dean continued to frown. "Her name's Poppy?"

John nodded again.

"Huh," Dean mused at the unusual name and then remembered Doris's earlier comment about her replacement. "Did she seem flaky?"

"Oh, yeah," John confirmed and shook his head again. "Even if she wasn't wearing her hair in pigtails, there's still no way she'd be touching Sam."

Dean chuckled. "Pigtails? Wow." He paused, still smiling – both at the image of a nurse wearing her hair that way and at how irritated John seemed by it. "Doris said she was a good nurse, though."

"Maybe she is," John conceded with a dismissive shrug. "But she still ain't touchin' my kid," he repeated protectively and stepped closer to the bed; suddenly eager to assess his youngest for himself. "Tell me about Sammy. How's his wound?" he asked as he refocused on the white bandage peeking out from the top of Sam's hospital gown.

Dean opened his mouth to respond but paused when Sam shifted under their father's touch as John carefully pulled away the thin fabric of the gown and reached for the gauze covering the kid's right shoulder.

John froze, glancing at Dean.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean soothed and waited for his brother to settle before nodding at John to continue his inspection. "It's fine," he answered about the wound. "The incision looks good...tight, neat stitches...no signs of infection. Just need to keep it clean and keep a watch on it."

John nodded his agreement; his fingers – cracked and calloused – hovering over the pink, puckered, slightly irritated skin of his youngest. "The surgeon did good work."

Dean nodded; wondering how many other patients' family members could make that comment and actually know what they were talking about; had actually experienced sliding a needle and thread through torn skin and knew how tedious good stitching could be.

"And his collarbone?" John asked, gently smoothing the bandage and hospital gown back in place over Sam's shoulder as his attention shifted to the sling that held Sam's right arm at an angle; his hand lightly touching the dark blue fabric.

Sam once again shifted; his brow creasing as he made a quiet sound – half whine, half grunt.

John frowned in response and cut his eyes at Dean. "Is he in pain?"

Dean glanced at his brother; his eyes sweeping the kid's features. "Looks like it," he confirmed and checked the clock hanging beside the door. "It's almost time for more pain meds."

John narrowed his eyes. "Do we have what he needs?"

Dean nodded. "He's just supposed to take regular pain meds, like we have in the kit."

John returned the nod and sighed; not liking that Sam was in pain but thankful they wouldn't have to beg, borrow, or steal – the last option being the one they resorted to the most – to get what their youngest needed.

"I have our kit in the duffel," John told his oldest. "I brought it just in case we needed it, so we can dose him before we leave."

Dean nodded, not surprised their dad had thought ahead and wondered if any other families brought their own first aid kits to hospitals "just in case".

John sighed again. "So...his collarbone?"

Dean rubbed Sam's back soothingly as his brother shifted again; knowing Sam's increasing restlessness meant the kid would be awake in a matter of minutes.

"The nurse said his collarbone will heal on its own," Dean reported, still amazed how lucky they were with that injury. "We just have to make sure Sam wears the sling for three to six weeks."

John's eyes widened as he met Dean's gaze. "Seriously?"

Dean chuckled. "Seriously."

John shook his head. "That sounds fun," he commented dryly; unknowingly repeating Dean's initial response to Sam's arm being immobilized for that long. "What else?"

Dean glanced at Sam, still feeling the slight heat of his brother's skin as the kid wallowed against him; slowly rising to consciousness. "He's got a fever, like you already know, but it doesn't seem to be anything major. And he's on antibiotics, but we have those in the Impala. Remember that stash of Amoxicillin?"

John nodded.

Dean did the same. "That's what they gave him. Plus, we can ice his collarbone if it starts swelling. Otherwise, just the usual – rest and recoup."

John nodded again, clearly pleased with such a good report about the overall condition of his youngest. "So, he's good to go?" he double-checked.

"I think so," Dean replied, hoping he wouldn't regret this decision. "Did you bring his clothes?"

"In the duffel," John reported, glancing at the bag sitting in the chair behind him and then looking back at Dean.

"Do we have a plan?"

"I have a few ideas," John responded vaguely.

Dean nodded; because he had a few ideas, too. "How are things outside?"

John shrugged. "Relatively calm – a couple of News vans...the usual cop cars."

"Is the Impala close to the door?"

John shook his head. "No. All the parking spaces were full, so I had to put her in one of the decks...which I think is going to work better for what I have in mind. Besides, it's not outside that I'm worried about..."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "You mean the security cameras?"

"Yes," John replied and then shook his head at how many he had seen just in the pediatric ward alone. "What the hell?"

Dean chuckled. "They don't make you feel safe?"

John scowled at his son's teasing. "No. They make me feel pissed and paranoid."

"That's par for the course for a Marine, though...right, Dad?"

"Funny," John responded dryly, even as his mouth twitched in a smile. "Smartass."

Dean laughed. "Anyway..." He sighed, glancing at Sam as the kid rubbed his face against his shirt. "I think I have an idea of how to get out of here. Unless you want to go first..."

John shook his head, refusing the offer, and then nodded at his oldest, silently urging Dean to continue.

Dean smiled at just the thought of what he was about to share. "Fire alarm."

John stared at his oldest, slowing nodding as he smiled...because that had been one of his ideas, too. "I like the way you think," he praised. "Concerned about you being a pyro..." His smile widened. "But I like the way you think."

"I'm not actually going to _set_ a fire," Dean defended, rolling his eyes...although he would not be opposed to doing so, if the situation called for it. "I'm talking about just pulling the alarm, so the entire floor will be evacuated."

John nodded, knowing exactly where his oldest was going with this plan. "We'll take Sam out with everybody else and then just disappear into the crowd."

Dean smiled, loving the high he felt when he and his dad were on the same wavelength; especially when they were working together for Sam's sake. "Which is why you parked the Impala in one of the decks..."

For a quicker, easier escape since the parking lot near the building would be crowded with evacuated patients and hospital staff.

John nodded. "They won't even know we're gone. There will be so much initial panic and confusion over the alarm that no one will miss us until much later."

"Especially since nurses just changed shifts..." Dean continued. "And the one we have now is a little flaky."

John snorted at Dean's understated description of Poppy the Pig-Tailed Nurse and then smiled as Sam shifted and wrinkled his nose; the kid's face scrunching like it always did before he rose to consciousness.

"Looks like somebody's waking up..." John commented, his tone equal parts affectionate and amused.

Dean nodded his agreement but decided to help the process along since they needed to get Sam dressed for their imminent hospital escape. "Sammy..." he called, nudging his brother by lifting the shoulder Sam was resting against.

Predictably, Sam shifted again and then opened his eyes; blinking drowsily at Dean within inches of his face.

Dean smiled warmly, waiting for Sam to gain his bearings.

Sam blinked once more at Dean before sighing as if being awake was too much effort and closing his eyes.

"Hey..." Dean nudged his little brother again. "Sammy. Look at me."

"M'sleepin'," Sam needlessly informed; his voice hoarse and whiney as he wallowed against Dean.

Dean narrowed his eyes and forced a sharper tone into his voice; wishing they had the luxury of time but knowing they did not. "Sam."

Smiling good-naturedly, John watched his oldest handle his youngest; sometimes recognizing himself in Dean's demeanor and wondering if Dean realized the similarity as well.

"Sam..." Dean called again when his brother did not respond and sat up straighter in the bed, forcing Sam to do the same.

Sam sighed, grunting his displeasure at being moved – even gently as Dean had done – and opened his eyes to stare at his brother. "D'n..."

"I know," Dean soothed, because he did.

Dean knew his brother was hurting and groggy and just wanted to be left alone. But he also knew they needed to hit the road before Sam's nurse – or worse, a cop – came back around.

"Sammy..." Dean called, grasping his brother's uninjured shoulder and easing Sam up and away from where the kid had been laying against his chest; holding his brother as he sat up and ducking his head to better see Sam's face. "It's time for us to go. We need to get you dressed, so we can leave, okay?"

Sam frowned; Dean's gentle grip on his left shoulder the only thing keeping him from collapsing back into the bank of pillows. "We can't leave 'til Dad comes."

Dean smiled at his out-of-it little brother; easing off the mattress to stand beside the bed and glancing at John as their dad continued to stand on the opposite side behind Sam.

John chuckled. "I'm already here, Sammy."

Sam's reaction was delayed; continuing to stare at Dean – confusion and pain pinching his features – before realizing what was said...and that John was the one who had spoken.

Sam turned his head to look behind him, wincing as the movement put a slight strain on his stitches and fractured collarbone. "Dad?"

John nodded; his throat unexpectedly tight with emotion at Sam's quiet, scratchy voice; at how pale and weak, small and vulnerable his youngest looked sitting in the hospital bed by himself.

Sam tried to smile. "Hey."

"Hey yourself, kiddo," John returned and reached to brush Sam's bangs from his eyes; overwhelmed with the urge to hug his child...so he did; gently wrapping his arms around his youngest while being mindful of the various monitor lines attached to his son. "You okay?" he asked into Sam's floppy, bedhead hair.

Sam nodded and sighed, seeming to relax into John's hold.

Dean smiled as he watched his dad and his brother; feeling uncharacteristically sentimental as John glanced at him over Sam's shoulder.

Because they both knew today could have turned out so differently...

John held Dean's gaze before lightly patting Sam's back and easing his youngest away; holding Sam at arm's length as his eyes swept over his child. "Let's get you dressed, kiddo..." he commented and glanced again at Dean, silently signaling a changing of the guard.

Sam yawned, feeling Dean's grasp replace John's as his dad released him and reached for the familiar duffel sitting in a nearby chair.

John rummaged through the bag's contents until he found their first aid kit.

"Sam..." Dean called, turning the kid to face him and then frowning as his brother coughed.

"What kind of pain meds did you say?" John asked from where he stood on the opposite side of the bed holding the open kit.

"Just the usual," Dean answered; his frown deepening as Sam coughed once more.

Sam sighed and swallowed; his nose briefly wrinkling as if doing so hurt.

Dean narrowed his eyes – not liking that – and accepted the pill John handed him from their stash of pain medicine in their kit; making sure it was the right kind – and the correct dosage – before directing his attention back to Sam.

"Here..." Dean told his brother, not bothering to give the tablet to Sam but instead pressing the pill against the kid's lips and into his mouth before reaching for the glass of water that still sat on the bedside table; offering it to Sam and patiently holding it while his brother sipped from the straw and swallowed the medicine before turning away.

Sam sighed.

"Done?" Dean double-checked.

Sam nodded, wiping the back of his left hand across his mouth and weakly smiling his thanks.

Dean smiled as well, setting the glass back on the table. "Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

Sam shook his head.

Dean looked doubtful. "Sammy..."

"M'okay," Sam assured and then nodded for emphasis.

Dean sighed, knowing he was probably going to regret not pushing the issue. "Fine," he agreed reluctantly and then rolled the bedside table back from the bed to allow more room to move around while dressing his brother. "Listen..."

Sam yawned and blinked expectantly at Dean.

Dean glanced at John as their dad handed him a stack of clothes for Sam – sweatpants, t-shirt, hoodie, boxers, and socks. "After we get you dressed, there's going to be a fire alarm."

Sam seemed to absorb the information and then tilted his head in confusion. "How do you know?"

John chuckled at the tired innocence of his child and turned away as Dean grabbed Sam's boxers and folded back the sheets; busying himself instead with rearranging the contents of the duffel still sitting in the chair while Dean completed that part of dressing their youngest.

"I just know," Dean responded to his brother's question, knowing Sam was too groggy to press for details, and reached under Sam's hospital gown; smoothly slipping the kid's legs through his boxers. "Lean forward, Sammy."

Sam did as he was told; leaning against Dean's chest and feeling his brother briefly lift him with one arm while guiding the boxers up and over his hips with his other hand; too tired to care that Dean was dressing him like he was a toddler again.

"Alright..." Dean sighed and reached for his brother's dark blue sweatpants; passing the elastic cuff over one foot, then the other. "Lean forward one more time, Sammy, and then we'll be done with the bottom part."

Recognizing that was his cue that all was clear with the boxers, John turned; watching his sons.

Sam yawned, making an uncoordinated grab for the waist of his sweatpants. "I can do it myself."

"Yeah," Dean snorted, batting Sam's hand away from the fabric. "All while falling off the bed and face planting on the floor."

Sam glared weakly.

Dean sighed. "Sammy..."

"Fine," Sam reluctantly agreed; the word distorted by another yawn.

Dean nodded his approval, waiting for Sam to lean against him before repeating the process as he did with the boxers; lifting the kid with one arm while quickly pulling the sweatpants over Sam's hips with his other hand.

Sam wrinkled his nose against the pain that flared in his right shoulder as Dean eased him back. "Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy..." Dean answered, lightly grasping Sam's hand and gently sliding the IV needle from his brother's skin.

Sam flinched and then hissed as the movement jarred his shoulder.

"Easy," Dean soothed, nodding his thanks to John as their dad took the needle in exchange for gauze and tape from their kit.

Sam swallowed another hiss as Dean dabbed at the slow trickle of blood on the back of his hand and then secured the gauze in place.

Behind him, John shook out the folded white t-shirt and stretched the neckline wide enough to fit over Sam's head without unnecessarily jostling the kid or his injuries.

Dean sighed, dreading this part. "Sammy..." he warned, sliding the hospital gown from his brother's narrow shoulders and wadding up the thin fabric before tossing it to another nearby chair in the corner of the room.

Sam shivered as the cool air struck his chest's bare skin. "I know," he told his brother; well aware that putting on his shirt and hoodie was probably going to hurt.

Dean nodded, briskly rubbing his hand over Sam's left arm to add what little warmth he could to his brother's chilled, goose-bumped skin.

"It'll be over before you know it," John predicted and then proved his point; swiftly but carefully slipping the t-shirt over Sam's head from behind while Dean maneuvered the kid's left arm through the sleeve and simply smoothed the fabric over Sam's right side; his slinged arm bunched under the shirt with the right sleeve hanging empty.

"Ta-da," Dean proclaimed, waving his hands excitedly in Sam's face, and then winked at his little brother.

Sam laughed quietly even as he winced; his shoulder and arm throbbing.

"It's okay," Dean soothed; knowing Sam was being brave but seeing the lines of pain across his brother's forehead and around the kid's eyes. "One more and we're done, Sammy."

"'Kay," Sam agreed and swallowed, bracing himself for a repeat performance.

"You'll be glad you have this," John commented conversationally, shaking out the grey hoodie from being folded and stretching its neckline like he had done for the t-shirt. "It's cold outside."

Dean nodded his agreement. "Plus, hoodies are like your binky when you feel like crap...right, Sammy?"

Sam glared weakly. "Shut up."

Dean laughed, affectionately tousling Sam's hair, and then nodded at John; father and oldest son once again working together to dress their youngest.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw to stop himself from crying out – because he knew his dad and brother were being careful with him, would not purposefully hurt him for anything in the world – but still unable to keep his whimper of pain to himself.

Dean immediately froze at the sound. "Sammy..." he called, ducking to see Sam's face from where the kid had bowed his head. "Sam..."

"Sorry," Sam apologized breathlessly; hating it when he could not be as strong as he wanted. "It just – "

"I know," Dean interrupted, knowing Sam hated to show weakness – or at least, what he perceived as weakness – in front of their father. "It just hurts like hell," he finished for his brother.

Sam nodded tightly and sighed; also hating how shaky he felt, how close to tears.

"It's okay," John further soothed, grabbing Sam's socks and crossing to the other side of the bed to stand beside his oldest and face his youngest. "Being a badass is supposed to hurt sometimes." He winked at Sam. "Trust me."

Sam huffed a laugh and sniffled; wondering why their dad couldn't be this cool all the time.

Dean smiled – slightly surprised but thankful for John's help in putting Sam at ease – and watched as their dad bent slightly to put the socks on Sam's feet.

There was a beat of silence; the white noise of the monitors' beeping filling the room.

"Your feet are freezing, Sam," John commented, slipping the thick white fabric over Sam's toes and up to his bony ankles.

"His feet are always freezing," Dean informed wisely, knowing first-hand; having had to endure years of his kid brother purposefully sticking his frigid feet against his legs at night whenever motel accommodations necessitated they sleep in the same bed.

Sam smiled, knowing what Dean was referring to, and then yawned twice; blinking his eyes wide as he suddenly felt exhausted.

Dean frowned. "You okay?"

Sam nodded. "Just tired."

"You can sleep in the car," John assured and then glanced at Dean. "Ready?"

Dean shrugged. "Guess so." He paused, watching Sam; steadying his brother when the kid's eyes dipped closed. "Sammy..."

Sam blinked his eyes open, squinting at Dean.

Dean smiled; wondering if a sleepy Sammy would always be an adorable Sammy. "Listen...remember that fire alarm I mentioned earlier?"

Sam nodded.

"It's about to happen, okay?" Dean asked, not wanting his groggy little brother to be startled by what was sure to be a piercingly loud noise.

"'Kay," Sam responded and yawned again.

John smiled at his youngest and then glanced at Dean. "Go ahead," he told his oldest quietly. "Pull the alarm and then wait for us by the stairwell."

Dean blinked; having expected that one of his jobs in this escape plan would be to pull the alarm – especially since he was the one who voiced the idea – but not wanting to leave Sam.

John frowned at Dean's silence. "Dean. Did you hear me?"

Dean nodded distractedly. "Yes, sir. I just..."

"Dean," John said, quirking a smile because he knew his oldest. "Sam will be fine. I've got him," he assured, nudging Dean's hand away from their youngest and holding Sam up as the kid continued to sit on the bed, nodding drowsily. "I'll disconnect these other wires from the monitors, and then we'll be right behind you as soon as the alarm sounds."

Dean sighed, knowing he was being ridiculous but still unable to shake his tendency to not want Sam out of his sight...especially today.

"Dean..."

Dean sighed again. "Okay," he finally agreed, hearing the impatience begin to creep into John's tone.

John nodded his approval. "Good." He glanced at the duffel still sitting in the chair. "Take that with you. I'll have my hands full with Sam."

Dean nodded as well and crossed to the opposite side of the bed; zipping the duffel before slinging it over his shoulder and crossing back to stand beside John; his attention flickering between his dad and his brother.

John arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"Be careful with him," Dean ordered, realizing he was once again being ridiculous but unable to stop himself. "Don't drop him. Okay?"

John blinked, barely resisting the urge to laugh. "I think I can handle it," he assured dryly.

Dean nodded and sighed; lingering a few more seconds before grabbing his leather jacket from the nearby chair, crossing to the door, and disappearing into the hall.

John waited a few seconds, remembering how many steps the nearest fire alarm box had been from Sam's room, and then directed his attention to his youngest. "Sam..."

Sam hummed his response but did not open his eyes.

John smiled, expecting as much, and rubbed his thumb over Sam's left shoulder as he continued to prop the kid up; waiting for the alarm to sound and feeling a wave of relief when it finally did.

Sam did not seem as comforted; instead startling violently; his eyes snapping open as he jerked beneath John's hand and then gasped in pain as the motion jarred his right arm and shoulder.

"Easy," John soothed, ducking his head to see his son. "It's okay. Just the fire alarm, remember? You're okay."

Sam swallowed, blinking rapidly, but nodded as if he remembered and glanced around the room. "Dean..."

"He's waiting for us in the hall," John explained calmly, squinting at the shrill blare of the alarm as it continued to echo; hearing others rush into the hall as the expected chaos took hold of the pediatric ward.

Sam wrinkled his nose. "S'loud," he needlessly reported.

"I know," John agreed, reaching under Sam's shirt and hoodie to gently peel the electrodes away from his son's small chest; the heart monitor instantly blaring its own warning to mingle with that of the fire alarm.

Sam shifted restlessly as he continued to sit on the mattress. "Dean..." he said again; understanding that his brother was supposedly waiting in the hall but still overwhelmed with the need to see Dean _now_.

John didn't respond, instead peeling away the oximeter electrodes from Sam's chest and thus adding another alarm to the mix before smoothing the kid's shirt and hoodie back in place.

In the hall, voices shouted over the clatter of wheelchairs and stretchers as nursing staff transported their young patients to the stairwell before bodily picking up the children and handing them off to waiting orderlies and aides to be carried downstairs and out of the building.

"Sam!" someone suddenly yelled, bursting into the room.

And even before he looked, John knew who he would see.

"He's fine," he assured Poppy, not wanting the nurse's help but further annoyed that she had taken so long to check on his son in the midst of a supposed crisis. "I've got him."

"Oh, good," Poppy breathed dramatically. "Thank you," she added and then ducked back into the hall.

Sam blinked at John. "Dad..."

"Yeah, Sammy," John answered, gathering the sheet and blanket from the bed and wrapping it around his son.

Sam yawned but did not say anything else; instead closing his eyes and relaxing into his father's arms as John carefully scooped him from the mattress; his injured right shoulder facing away from his dad's body.

John smiled affectionately at his youngest; readjusting his hold on Sam as he gave a final visual sweep to the room and then crossed to the door; putting to use years of practice of holding a sleeping kid and turning a doorknob.

Once in the hall, John instantly saw Dean; his oldest staring intently in his direction and looking noticeably relieved when John appeared carrying Sam.

John tucked the blanket tighter around his child and fell in with the motion of the crowd; holding Sam protectively against his chest as he quickly moved toward the stairwell; his long strides passing others who clogged the hall.

"What took so long?" Dean demanded as soon as John was close enough to hear him over the blare of the fire alarm.

John scowled his annoyance at being questioned but did not respond; instead exiting through the door Dean held open and descending the steps; hearing his oldest follow behind him.

Minutes later, they exited the building; passing through the gathered crowd of patients and hospital staff; using the expected confusion and chaos as their camouflage as they crossed the parking lot and ducked into the stairwell of a neighboring parking deck.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed, his nerves on edge from the past several minutes, and then turned to John. "Let me see him," he demanded as they cleared the top step of the parking deck and reached the level where the Impala waited.

John sighed. "He's fine," he assured Dean but paused long enough for his oldest to pull back the blankets and see Sam for himself.

Dean's eyes swept over his brother; taking in the kid's pale but pain-free face; relieved that Sam seemed to be resting comfortably in John's arms, completely unaware of the created drama surrounding their escape from the hospital.

"Happy?" John asked.

"Ecstatic," Dean returned with equal dryness in his tone and fell in line beside his dad as John began walking toward the Impala.

"I've got the backseat set up with pillows and more blankets from the motel," John reported as they neared the familiar black vehicle.

Dean nodded his understanding that John had done so for Sam but crawled into the backseat himself once they reached the Impala; tossing the duffel into the front seat and then peering out the open door expectantly.

John arched an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting on you," Dean responded, his tone clipped from the stress of being separated from an injured Sam. "Hand him over."

John huffed a laugh but knew better than to argue with his oldest when Dean was in the mood to mother hen their youngest.

Dean blinked, motioning impatiently at John as his dad continued to stand outside the car with Sam in his arms.

John sighed. "He'll be fine back here by himself, you know..." he reminded his oldest even as he ducked into the backseat and gently set Sam beside Dean.

"I know," Dean agreed easily, lifting his arm and carefully settling his sleeping brother against him; covering the blankets with his leather jacket. "Just thought I'd ride back here for a little while..."

"Mmhmm," John returned knowingly; his lips twitching in a smile as he shut the backseat door and crossed to the driver's side; sliding behind the wheel and adjusting his rearview to see his boys before cranking the Impala's engine.

Dean glanced down at Sam as his brother shifted against him at the sound of the familiar rumble; the kid sleepily mumbling and rubbing his face into Dean's chest before settling with a sigh.

"He okay?" John checked, glancing in his rearview mirror as he eased the Impala out of the parking deck and drove toward the main entrance of the hospital's campus; back to the highway and planning to cross state lines before stopping for the night.

Dean nodded; his arm still protectively draped over Sam as his little brother continued to sleep against him. "We're good," he responded, watching the blur of trees out the side window and hoping they never passed through this town again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>FIN<strong>_


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